


Desire's a Bitch

by Setheneran (ladyredms)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, sarcastic pro-mage rogue Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyredms/pseuds/Setheneran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Spoilers for Act I of Dragon Age II)</p><p>Hawke and Anders are on the precipice of romance. Unfortunately, they've been stuck there for two years. It takes a rather strange series of events to force them to confront their feelings.</p><p>(UA of how their relationship starts. Between Act I and II.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The chill of early morning was still heavy on the air as Hawke stepped into the streets of Darktown. The clustered walls were dank and wet with chokedamp lichen, the air filling his lungs with a claustrophobic heat. He instantly felt eyes on him from the shadows. The old tunnels ranked as Hawke’s least favorite place to travel, with the Deep Roads a close second. The stench was … impressive.

He drew one of his curved Antivan daggers(gifts from Isabela, who not-so-subtly hinted he should use them to cut her out of her bodice), holding it casually at his side and twirling it a few times so the steel glinted and shone in the low light.

He wasn’t interested in tangling with muggers today, and showing off his weaponry would at least give them a chance to reconsider jumping him. _You picked the worst place to live, Anders, I swear._

Of course, Anders picked it precisely for that reason. The worse it was, the more people needed him. The lack of guard and Templar oversight was merely an added benefit.

Hawke’s mind wandered for approximately two seconds, an image surfacing of Anders pouring everything he had into an injured man, trembling and shaking as the magic sucked him dry.. sweat beading on his forehead…

Shaking his head quickly as though it would shake the thought right out of his brain, Hawke sighed temperamentally.

Two years of knowing the healer had left Hawke with an … interest.

Alright, ten minutes of knowing him had left him with an interest. At this point it was a _thoroughly explored train of thought._

It wasn't that Hawke was surprised by the feelings. He'd been aware of his own leanings for a long time, recognizing a dissonance between how his brother had looked at the girls in Lothering and what he had experienced. Like the difference between drooling over a pot of hearty stew and sort of... admiring a nice painting. They were pretty and he knew they were, but he just didn't feel anything.

Mother had no idea, though Bethany did.

Carver...

Well, Hawke imagined Carver would have loved having something to lord over him.

Awareness aside, Hawke had never actually been in a position to _do_ anything. He'd had a few awkward encounters with women where he did a respectable job of pretending he wasn't thoroughly disinterested, but they weren't his proudest moments.

He'd spent most of his time dodging his mother's dogged interest in his affairs. She meant well, wanted him to find love, so it was easy enough to pretend he just hadn't found a girl he liked. That he wanted someone he cared for. She ate it up.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Anders was an... unexpected exception.

He'd come onto _Hawke,_ a lopsided smile doing wonderful things to previously darkened and tired eyes as he worked his way rather perilously through his words. Hawke must have looked dumbstruck, because Anders had halted, asking if he was making him uncomfortable.

'No' couldn't come fast enough.

Anders had a kind of bedraggled weariness permanently weighing him down, but underneath the messy stubble and dark circles, Hawke found his fine features and long limbs... immensely engaging. It was a somewhat conflicting set of emotions that made him want to take a large tub of hot, soapy water and a cloth and clean Anders up.

Thoroughly.

Beyond that, they’d flirted, but danced around saying anything concrete. Hawke was hesitant to push, particularly since the whole affair had started just after they’d discovered that Anders’ ex-lover, Karl, was Tranquil.

And Anders had killed him.

… And revealed the spirit of Justice possessing him.

_No, no, it’s completely uncomplicated. Honest._

Anders was an extraordinarily closed off person when he wanted to be, and no matter how often Hawke tried, there always seemed to be a wall that would stop him from truly getting close.

He'd brush a hand against Anders'. The mage would linger... then pull away.

He'd hold a gaze a little too long. The mage would redden... then break it.

He'd drop his tone flirtatiously. The mage would smile... then change the topic.

Hawke wasn't used to _trying,_ or even openly acknowledging his interest _._ If Anders hadn't started it, Hawke most likely wouldn't have. Honestly, if Anders had _once_ asked him to stop, he'd have fled with whatever dignity he had left. But he never did, and that was Hawke's frustration.

Anders always seemed on the brink of closing the gap.

But, the last two years hadn't exactly been spent in agonized longing. Anders held back a lot, but his friendship came... easier, relatively. He even joined them (Hawke, Varric, Isabela, Merrill, and sometimes a reluctant Fenris) at the Hanged Man when his clinic was quiet and he was in a better mood.

Though those events aligning were somewhat like a miracle, it was more often these days. The man shook off any offer of ale or brandy, but he eagerly took to their games of Wicked Grace and Hawke could have sworn he had _fun._ He came back, at least.

A few times, Anders had walked him home when he had too many ales. The mage was always quiet and thoughtful, and Hawke remembered leaning on him once. He was genuinely off balance, although maybe slightly more clear of mind than he acted.

Anders' face had brushed against the side of his head and he was fairly sure he felt a shiver.

But - again - he pulled away, smiling somewhat sheepishly. “Goodnight, Hawke.”

Hawke had never in his life wanted more acutely to punch and then kiss a man.

Sadly, he had enough of a mind to know that if it were to happen, he wanted to be in full control of all his faculties. As much as a part of him would have been glad to drunkenly paw at Anders' body while they kissed in the street, he thought it through and realized he'd much rather do it slowly.

Gently.

Make Anders regret every single time he'd pulled away and postponed it.

Taking the streets of Darktown at a quick pace, Hawke wound his way toward the deeper end. He had a job to take care of that did _not_ involve Anders, much as his thoughts might imply otherwise; there were rumors of an apostate who had turned to blood magic and was hiding from the Templars in the slums.

Admittedly, his eagerness to help the Templars locate the mage was likely rooted in making sure they didn't have an extra reason to raid Darktown.

If the mage was reasonable and the rumors unfounded, then he'd help them escape and pass on the news to the Knight-Commander. Two nugs with one stone, plus the satisfaction of frustrating Templar authority.

If he walked in on blood magic, well... what he did would depend on a few different factors.

_'I'm power hungry and blood magic will make me stronger!' and 'I'm terrified and used blood magic in a moment of panic!' are two very different mages._

That was why he didn't want to bring Anders. It wasn't as though the healer approved of blood magic; quite the opposite. But being forced to kill a mage at the behest of the Templars, justified in this one instance or not, wasn't something Hawke _enjoyed_ making Anders do.

He had been tempted to take Merrill, who would be best suited to defend against a maleficar, or Fenris, who would probably love the chance to 'bring a mage to heel.' But Fenris' mansion was empty and Merrill had been thoroughly embroiled in plugging all the rat holes in her house.

After a good half hour of trying to help her catch a particularly elusive brown mouse, Hawke decided it wasn't worth dragging her away and left her to it.

Besides, it wouldn't be the first mage he had to deal with, nor the last. If he couldn't handle one frightened apostate, then he had bigger problems.

 _Like the frightened apostate I'm currently trying to handle._ he thought, rather amused with himself.

Hawke quickstepped down a set of cracking stairs, giving a wide berth to a cloaked figure who was slipping out of a doorway just to his left. He glanced just long enough to make sure they weren't advancing towards him, then continued away.

Naturally, he wasn't that lucky. Like the Maker himself came down and snubbed his nose at him, it just _had_ to be Anders.

"Hawke?" the mage's voice was confused and strained, always a little bit broken.

Grimacing like he'd just disturbed a sleeping mabari, Hawke inhaled and then arranged his expression into something casually surprised. He turned, returning his knife to its loop on his belt. The healer was looking worse than usual as he eyed Hawke from under the hood of his brown cloak; his pallor rested somewhere between 'corpse' and 'waxen figure.'

"Making housecalls?" the rogue asked, palming down the front of his leather chestpiece as if to straighten it out. It was old gear from his year as a smuggler: grey washed leather 'imported' from Seheron.

"I didn't know you did that."

Anders seemed almost lethargic, glancing over his shoulder at the door he'd just exited. "Ah..." He drew his hood down around his shoulders, blinking back to Hawke's face. _Corpse, definitely._ Hawke decided upon getting a better look. "Not normally. I was ... checking on a patient. A child. It's a long story."

Pain fluctuated over his features, and Hawke felt a sympathetic twinge in his gut. It was an all-too-oft seen expression. The day when Anders _wasn't_ worried over someone else would be a noteworthy day, indeed.

"They're alright?"

Anders shrugged in the same motion that he nodded.

Hawke didn't press too hard. He wanted to, but knew well that sometimes talking only made things worse. "You look like you need to eat." he observed somewhat pointedly. "I'll bring something by the clinic tonight."

"You don't have to -" But Anders interrupted himself with a sigh, sagging his head into a raised hand. He rubbed his face, pinching the crooked bridge of his nose. Hawke would have chuckled had the mage not looked so extraordinarily frustrated.

He wasn’t sure what, precisely, at. Anders was always quick to brush off offers of help, but not with this much agitation.

“I’ll just drop it off.” he clarified, a mild glaze over his features. Anders was clearly troubled, he reminded himself, gentling his voice.“If you'd rather be alone.”

Hawke watched with restrained interest as Anders lowered his hand and proceeded to do a thorough job of looking at everything but him.

“... Alright.” the healer acquiesced, and Hawke felt a vague thud of disappointment. He knew it radiated off him, and for once, he didn't really try to mask it. _Accepted the food, rejected the company. It's always comforting to know where one stands._

Unfortunately, Anders was extremely talented at not acknowledging such things. He reached up a hand to rub fingertips at the bruised circles underneath his eyes, voice lowering. “Why are you in Darktown, anyway? You weren't going to the clinic, so...?” His lengthy features drew into a look of suspicion, if dull.

Crossing his arms, Hawke gazed at him. He pulled a quirked grin up over his face, aware it was half-hearted. “Oh, it's a meditation thing. Take an early morning stroll through Darktown, smell the fresh misery and despair. Puts a real skip in my step.”

Anders didn't laugh.

“You've got a job, don't you? Why are you alone, Hawke? Anything in here is dangerous, even for -”

Hawke lifted his hands, waving Anders off with a faint bemusement. It was impressive how it took the other man approximately ten seconds to transition from rejecting him to worrying about him. It was laughable, really, and a pattern they'd fallen into quite comfortably over the last two years.

“I'm just going to talk to someone.” Hopefully. “Nothing dangerous.” Probably.

Anders read between the lines, if his wrought brows said anything, but he exhaled a sigh heavily instead of arguing. “Alright, Hawke. Make sure you drop by, then, so I know you didn't get into trouble.”

 _Pretty sure dropping by is what_ gets _me in trouble._

“Wouldn't want you to worry. Because your life is so carefree, otherwise!” is what Hawke ended up saying, lips parting to show a sliver of teeth amidst his grin.

Anders snorted that time, a vague exhale of a laugh. That was enough to settle something that had begun to grow anxious in the back of Hawke's mind, glad to see a crack in that veneer of tension so often applied over Anders' form. Even beyond relief to see Anders wasn't entirely withdrawing from him, Hawke was pleased to make him laugh, however small and stifled.

Much as he hesitated to think too long on it, Anders' well-being had grown to mean quite a bit to him. It was a sincere feeling that had long since gotten tied up and confused with Hawke's equally sincere desire to know how his mouth tasted.

The healer reached up to pull his hood back over his head, shadows dropping down his face and making his eyes seem brighter as they caught light from a torch on the wall behind Hawke. “I'm serious.”

Hawke waved a hand in an open gesture, turning away from him to continue his path into the depths of Darktown. “I know. See you.”

He felt Anders' eyes on his back, but didn't look. The shifts between awkwardness and familiarity, distance and intimacy, were dizzying. Dodging his steps over cracks in the ground, Hawke resisted the urge to laugh at himself.


	2. Chapter 2

The chair groaned in protest as Anders fell into it with a stagger.

His breathing was shallow and ragged as he pressed his palms into his eyes. The last remnants of his healing magic sunk straight through his skull, alleviating some of the excruciating headache that had him struggling to think.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he shuddered. Flinched. The touch hurt, magic crackling along his skin and sending goosebumps down his arms as the pain spiked. “Thank you.” a trembling voice said, but Anders could not respond.

A man had come to the clinic, clutching a plank he was using as a cane, the smell of blood and rot wafting in with him. A wound on his leg had been left untreated, now rampant with gangrene. He was stone-faced and serious, begging only for help in amputating it.

Anders had refused.

It had taken every ounce of energy left in his bones, but - half demented with resolve - Anders had poured himself into that wound. He fought like every wrong in the world could be righted with one rescued limb, even as his own limbs struggled against failure under the drain of his magic.

The rot was deep. Magic could only reverse so much.

But the man had a fighting chance now. The worst of the damage had repaired itself, and the remaining infection could be kept at bay with enough care.

Blindly massaging his forehead, Anders was aware of his most recent assistant (a young elven girl who fled her alienage rather than be married, though she never explained exactly why - nor even told him her name) gently guiding the man away. She put a jar of poultice in his hands and he left on his makeshift cane, chanting grateful 'thank you's over his shoulder.

A few moments later, the lip of a jug of water was being placed against his mouth. He grabbed it with both hands, choking down a few mouthfuls before he shook his head and she retracted it. The liquid soothed his throat, but it was lukewarm and tasted metallic. His stomach tightened in protest.

“You work too hard, ser.”

Anders laughed, feeling the sound break and shatter before it left his lips. The adrenaline was gone, and he was left only with his hollow body and a sense of despair. “For every one I help, there's five more I can't. And ten more who aren't getting help at all.” He lowered himself to slouch, resting elbows on his knees and hanging his head. He had his eyes closed, resting in the darkness.

“It's not enough.”

She hovered in front of him, a warm presence, without coming too close. “The ones you help would disagree.” She had quickly learned that the more exhausted he became, the more space he needed. She may not have known what it truly was, but she had seen flashes of Justice on the days when he was worn down to nothing.

It had scared her, and he knew it. But she never spoke of it, and it didn't stop her from helping him.

That made him sigh. Shaking his head, Anders pinched fingertips down the bridge of his nose, his digits trembling. His whole body shook like a leaf, and when he opened his eyes, it was blearily. A damp rag was held before his face by her thin fingers, and he accepted it.

Taking the cloth with one hand and tossing it to his lap, he cupped the other under her wrist to keep her hand where it was. She used to flinch at any touch, no matter how faint, but had slowly learned to trust him. Thumbing a few coins out of a pocket near the waistline of his robe, he placed them in her palm.

The elf pulled away and examined the silver coins, green eyes alert.

“Go get yourself some food from Lowtown. I'll handle things for a few hours.” he told her, gentle, wiping the sweat off his face with the cloth before cleaning his hands off on it. She grasped the folds of her skirt and curtseyed, and Anders examined the floor between his knees as she left.

He was eager for some silence, though he was glad to get her a good meal in general.

Anders had refused to take 'his share' of the wealth from the Deep Roads expedition unless it was in the form of supplies for his clinic, so Hawke and Varric had found a merchant who traded herbs and poultices and worked out a deal.

Frustratingly, the shipments always came with some extra coin. He felt nothing but guilt at the weight and jingle, so any chance to put them in someone else's hands was a chance he readily took up.

Hawke meant well.

He always did.

Wearily, Anders straightened into his chair. The nape of his neck braced on the top of the chair's back as he rolled his head backwards, staring up into the tall ceiling of his storage-room-turned-clinic. Their interaction was still stuck in his mind.

He was so tired. It was hard to keep in control when his body was so broken down; Grey Warden nightmares had plagued him for the past few days, and when they didn't Justice gladly took up the mantle, and sleep was something he could only fondly remember.

Times like these, he struggled to remind himself that it was best if he kept his distance from Hawke.

_The more you feel for him, the more cruel it would be. If you truly care, you'll save him the pain._

Anders was toxic. He had ruined his life with his family, ruined Justice, ruined everything he touched. One way or another, people suffered around him. Even Bethany Hawke's capture and induction to the Circle felt like his fault. _If I hadn't had those bloody maps..._

If he could keep Hawke from being another of his victims, he would.

Even if it meant never feeling those broad hands skating down his back. That low voice collapsing into a moan. Strength turned to passion, fevered lust melting them together. Thinking about the body Hawke was hiding behind his clothes and armor -

These were all thoughts Anders tried very hard to steer himself away from.

Frustrated, Anders dragged himself to his feet. Force of will kept him standing, and he slowly began working his way through the room. Cleanliness was half the battle, sometimes, and he would not rest with things in disarray. He grabbed up the jug of water his assistant had left near his chair and began washing down the tables set up through the middle of the room.

Justice had always seemed the death toll of those sides of him. He'd lost the urge for physical intimacy a long time ago; it had just faded, more important things taking precedence in his mind. Justice disapproved, and Anders' appetite for others seemed to vanish.

Even handling himself alone seemed more effort than it was worth, and it felt... wrong. He felt himself fading, losing the already shaky lines between him and the spirit inside of him.

Then Hawke arrived and it was a jolt of _life._

His bearded face was strikingly handsome. His voice vibrated with fiendish humor, but good will. His body was worked to a taut musculature. The Anders from a few years ago would have been begging him to bed from the first second they met.

Two years into knowing him, and the Anders from now was scrubbing blood off wood and trying not to think about Hawke's hands.

Justice still disapproved.

Since meeting the rogue, Anders had watched helplessly as those old feelings came surging back. He had heated dreams, said things he quickly regretted, caught glances down the other man's body, imagined it with a few less layers of clothing...

And he knew perfectly well Hawke felt the same.

Despite making no headway, he'd stayed. Two years, and he'd never given up, and never truly pushed. Never hated Anders for his distance. Just stayed, loyal and determined, the longing between them a constant burn that they both suffered. Hawke was one of the best friends Anders had had in a very long time.

Anders cared for him. And Hawke cared back.

That, maybe, was the worst part; there was nothing separating them but Anders' own will, and his will was becoming more and more fragile. But he was afraid. Nothing good could come of him getting involved with someone, let alone someone he genuinely cared for.

Hawke awoke a part of him that he thought he had long since left behind, and sometimes Anders bitterly wished it had remained there.

Exhaling deeply, Anders moved to the next patch of dirtied wood.

Maybe it was finally time to speak with him. To sit down; to tell Hawke how he felt, and why they should not cross that line. It was Anders' fault, and it was high time Hawke truly understood why. It was selfish to keep that from him. It hurt to think Hawke might blame himself. Anders was too many nasty, ugly things rolled into one, and no good would ever come of anything between them.

It was far too late to pretend that a night with Hawke would be just for fun, like sex once was with Karl and countless others. Nothing was that simple anymore. Anders nodded to himself, bracing his weight against the table and taking a long breath.

 _Tonight, when he comes by. I'll explain everything, and from then on, no more foolish desire. No more flirting when I know I … can't. I can't do this. I gave all this up when I made my deal with Justice. I have to let this go. Let_ him _go._

He hated even thinking the words. Hated himself, and Justice, and Hawke.

_It's the best thing to do. I know it is. Hurting him now is better than much worse, later._

_Void take me._


	3. Chapter 3

_Oh joy._

The building before Hawke was only slightly more dilapidated than any of the other shanties spread throughout Darktown's ragged environs. Its windows were nailed shut, glass long since shattered and lost, and the walls were stained suspicious shades of rusty brown. 'Unpleasant' was an understatement. The rankness sunk into his bones.

A scraggly black rat stared at him from underneath a half-toppled bucket, hissing ferociously when he stepped near... then fleeing in abject terror when he kicked its hiding place over.

Satisfied, Hawke inspected the face of the house. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance. No scorch marks or blood trails; nothing that overtly screamed 'blood mage hideout.' But it was the farthest house on the last row, and that was where the rumors pointed him.

Standing before the squat building's rotten door, a smarter man might have reconsidered.

_We can't have anyone thinking serah Garrett Hawke has his wits about him, now can we?_

Reaching out to grasp the slim piece of raw metal that had been crudely hammered into the door as a handle, Hawke dragged it open. The bottom edge caught on the ground, scraping, and the hinges squealed like some kind of dying animal. Wincing, he had his daggers out and in his hands in an instant, one held normally and the other gripped upside-down.

The inside of the building was dark, but not pitch-black. A lit candle tremulously spread a globe of golden light from the edge of a table, casting shadows and shapes in all directions. Hawke cautiously watched for movement, scanning the dimensions of the front room. That table was the only furniture; the rest of the room was bare, as far as Hawke could discern in the dark.

There was a second door, leading either to a closet or another room. It was closed.

He kept his breath steady as he tenderly advanced through the doorway. Stealth seemed pointless after the noise the door had made, but he wasn't about to blunder in, either. Checking the corners of the room, Hawke moved first to the candle. A quick examination had him noticing that wax had only just begun to melt and drip down the length of the candlestick. It hadn't even pooled in the curved metal base yet.

_Freshly lit?_

The front door caught on the ground with a heavy scrape when it slammed shut, hinges letting off a short squawk. Hawke jumped clear out of his skin, the room growing several shades darker without the light from the open doorway. He reflexively spun, dropping into a low stance with his blades flared out in his hands. His hip cracked into the edge of the table, knocking the candle over.

It clattered onto its side but did not go out.

“Maker's breath.” Hawke muttered, shaking off a chill encroaching up his spine. Agitated at himself for being spooked, the rogue stalked to the door, darting his eyes between the darkest corners of the room. Some distant part of his mind was fully preparing himself for the eventuality of the door being stuck shut, _because that's just my luck._

Needless to say, he was surprised when it gave way to a nudge with his knuckles. It reopened, swinging slowly until it hit that raised part of the walkway outside and lodged itself there without enough momentum to grate past. Hawke eyed it mistrustfully for a moment. The door was stuck now, though, and stayed.

Exhaling shortly, Hawke returned to the tableside. He picked up the toppled candlestick and set it upright, turning his attention to the closed door further in. Less cautious now, he approached the door and sidled up to it.

He touched fingertips to the crude handle, knife grip pushed into his palm. Listening for a moment, Hawke heard nothing - so he spoke, warily.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

No response, and no audible movement.

“I'm not here to take you to the Templars. In fact, I'm currently your best chance at a long, healthy life.”

Silence, beyond the muffled noises drifting in from Darktown's alleys.

"I'd appreciate advance warning if you're going to start lobbing fireballs."

Hawke gave it a good few seconds, then pushed the door open. He didn't enter, though - the moment the door started swinging, he dodged smoothly to flatten himself against the wall to the right of the now open threshold. Gripping his blades with a calm firmness, he waited another few beats.

More silence. _No magical greeting, at least._

Hawke craned himself around to look into the doorway, eyes quickly taking in the room. It took him a split-second to process it, but he tensed up when he saw -

...nothing.

Just his own shadow plastered on the far wall, a vague shape given form by the candle glowing behind him. He blinked, shaking off his own imagination and taking a careful glance around the room. It took a moment to convince himself he hadn't seen a figure standing there.

Strange that there were dots in his vision as though he had looked into a bright light... but the room was dark? _Mind is playing tricks on me.  
_

It was a bedroom, or the closest approximation that Darktown seemed to have. A crude cot was erected against the wall, sporting a lumpy sack of straw for a mattress. There was a candle in that room as well, but it was blown out, leaving behind only the vague smell of charred wick. He found himself frowning.

The vacancy should have relieved him. All it did was frustrate him. 

Sheathing his blades, Hawke made a slow pass through the room. His eyes adjusted easily enough, and light filtered in from the lit candle and the half-open front door. There was nothing left behind, it seemed. _No half-eaten food, no belongings, no evil blood mage grimoire._

 _Great_. 

Hawke sighed, thoughtfully, letting his arms cross over his chest as he pondered. He would have liked evidence to take to the Templars of the rumored mage and their fate (real or fabricated). An empty building and a bad feeling didn't give him much to go on. Shaking his head, Hawke bit back his frustration.

He couldn't solve every problem he set his sights on, and he knew as much. But keeping Templars well away from Darktown was … important. 

Anders was important.

Setting his jaw tightly in place, Hawke knelt down to start searching around the cot. Praying that maybe the mage had hidden his things, Hawke tugged one of his knives out and slashed the mattress open along the seam. He was instantly assaulted by the smell of mouldering straw, coughing against his shoulder at the sour stench. 

Regretting the action fairly quickly, he ducked his head to glance underneath the cot instead. 

There was something under there... A piece of clothing? A satchel?... but it was too dark to see properly.

He reached - 

And a footstep behind him had him whirling. His blades were in his hands like it were second nature, and he moved to lunge and catch the invader off guard.

He would have done so rather soundly, had the invader not been _Anders_.

Shocked, Hawke just barely caught himself mid-step. For the second time in one day, Hawke came face to face with the healer in a place he honestly did _not_ want to. This time, confusion reined bluntly on Hawke's face.

"How in -"  He quickly lowered his weapons upon realizing he was still brandishing them, trying to laugh and defuse his own tension. "Andraste's bosom, I said 'later,' not 'follow me. ' You Grey Wardens never listen, do you?"

The low light did fascinating things to Anders' form. He had left his cloak behind, so the golden light filtered softly through the feathers that adorned his shoulders and the hair tied back behind his ears. It suffused him with this... aura. This gentle glow. 

Hawke's eyes widened slightly when Anders responded, "I couldn't wait. I had to see you, now." His voice was low and soft. Lower than Hawke had ever heard it. Honey-brown eyes met his deeply and Hawke was quickly left grasping for words.

"I'm sorry." The apology was pleading, heady. The healer advanced towards him, movements smooth as silk. His face was weary and unkempt, just like always, but there was something running wild over his long features that Hawke had only glimpsed in flashes and hints.

Want.

Need.

Hawke felt heat shooting through his veins like his blood were touched by flame. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. Was Anders truly staring at him like  _that?_  No hesitation, no frustrated withdrawl? "Well, as you can see, all safe and sound. No need to worry." 

The mage was coming closer and Hawke felt his feet taking steps back even as everything else screamed at him to go forward. "Really, Anders, are you alright? You're acting strange. Maybe we should talk at your clinic, or my Estate, or... anywhere but here, really."

Anders didn't slow. He spoke so softly it escaped him formlessly. Like the touch of a breeze. "I've thought about this so many times... about you. I need this."

Hawke found the end of the room faster than he expected, hitting all his weight into the wall. The impact startled him, and before he could regain his senses, Anders was in front of him. The space between them was inches.

_Why am I nervous? It's only two damn years of longing and flirting culminating in the darkened, rotting bedroom of some fool's hideaway. There's no reason to be nervous._

Surreal. Everything felt surreal.

Hawke wanted to speak. To say something, _anything_ that didn't make him sound like a fool. Then Anders' fingers touched his. Gently guiding, skin warm. The healer coaxed his blades out of his grip and they clattered to the floor.

"I need you." 

The world spun when Anders closed the gap, and their chests settled against each other. The mage was gentle but firm in touch and body, and Hawke knew he let out an audible sound when a knee was eased between his. He felt the contact through his leather, the mage's thigh pressing up against him intimately.

"Anders -" It was half a question, half a moan. "Are you sure - The Hanged Man has rooms, if -" 

Their faces drew near. Noses grazed against one another while Anders' hands traveled to flatten and stroke up Hawke's abdomen. Their breath mixed. Hands touched his cheeks, the healer's fingertips getting lost in the beard that framed his face. Every touch was a new spark, a fresh sensation, his body going limp in some places and rigid in others.

"Two years." the healer murmured. His voice seemed the only thing that anchored Hawke to any kind of reason. "All this time, suffering like fools. Aren't you tired of waiting, Hawke?"

Hawke had never wanted someone quite this badly. His body was quickly overheating with lust, eagerly responding to every bit of attention it was given. When he felt a firmness pressing into his thigh through the other man's robes, he wanted nothing but Anders, right there.

"Yes - Maker, yes."

Anders sunk his fingers into his hair, grasping, tightening, and Hawke circled his arms around the other man's torso to drag him closer. Every inch of space between them dissipated all at once, and their lips met with an urgency that left them both breathless. The healer fit into his arms and against his body like he was _meant to be there._

Kissing Anders was pure heat, their movements so fast and desperate it was almost hard to keep up. A dampness made their lips slick, and when Anders ground his crotch against Hawke's, the kiss became filled with stifled noises from both. Leather and cloth shuffled amidst the friction, increasing the heat.

It felt like... ecstasy.

Anders broke the kiss to place his mouth against the rogue's neck and trail nips over every inch of skin he could reach. "What do you want, Garrett...?" was whispered into his neck, hot and desperate. Hawke grasped at Anders' back, fingers finding purchase in his robe, and groaned with pleasure.

Hardness to hardness. Anders' stubbled cheek raking against the stubbled flesh of his neck. His hands rubbing down Anders' back and feeling his firm body. Breathing him in. Every idle fantasy, brought to life in that one moment. Every instant he spent pining like a fool, every touch he applied to his own body while thinking of the other man.

"I want you." Hawke growled against his ear, sincere but lightheaded.

He wanted to warn Anders he'd never actually been with men; only women and dreams, but he could hardly work out the words before Anders sunk slowly to his knees in front of him. He watched with bristling lust, breath humid and quick between his lips, as the healer began undoing the buckle of his leather belt.

Even the shift and pressure of unbuckling him was enough to make him shudder. Anders wet his lips and smiled up at him, and Hawke wanted to kiss him almost as much as he wanted that mouth wrapped around his shaft. He settled for sliding his hands to the crown of Anders' head and burying fingers in his gold-blond hair, pushing the small ponytail undone and glorying in the feel of that unkempt hair between his fingers. 

Through the pleasure that thrummed in every fiber of his body, Hawke did not - could not - perceive the delicate hand that caressed up his cheek. Its fingers were cold as ice but soft as satin, skin lurid shades of purple. 

"You will have everything you desire and more, love." it purred in a voice that was both Anders', and was not. 

Black nails traced his browline with caring delicacy, and serpentine eyes glowed as they hungrily examined his face. Its tail wrapped possessively around his wrist as it thrived in every wisp of the passion that passed through him.


	4. Chapter 4

_I should have heard from him by now._

Anders paced the width of his clinic, eyes trained on something far away. It was some time after midday. Hours since he’d heard from Hawke. Two, maybe? The day had been slow after his assistant left. With no patients to see, time crawled along.

He was left with too many thoughts and too little to occupy him.

_Surely Hawke would have stopped in when he was done. Wouldn’t he?_

_Unless…_ Biting the tip of his thumb between his teeth, Anders’ pacing sped up. _He might be upset with me. I was short with him... He’s probably at the Estate - or the Hanged Man, more likely. I should go find him._

The length of his stride widened, movements turning frenetic.

 _Then again… rush out to go hunt him down so I can tell him I don’t want to be with him? Oh, what a grand idea, Anders. Impressively mixed messages._ Sighing, Anders halted in place and eyed the reddened indentation on the pad of his thumb. _I’m being paranoid. This is Hawke, after all. He’s fine… I should just wait until he stops by tonight._

He nodded confidently, taking in slow breaths to relax himself. Then the pacing started again.

_… And if he doesn’t? If he ran into trouble, it’s already been too long._

Anders’ chest ached. The idea of anything happening to Hawke was more painful than he could bear. He could suffer a world where Hawke lay in the arms of someone else, someone who wouldn’t bring ugliness and pain into his life, but a world entirely without him?

He would rather die.

A pang of pain flashed across his temples, making him miss-step, but he righted himself and grasped the edge of one of the clinic tables to steady his balance. He exhaled, heavily, closing his eyes with a weary tremble. Justice thought Hawke was a distraction; an unnecessary indulgence.

He agreed with Justice on many things. But that, they dissented on.

And dissenting with Justice was… a strange feeling. Like he was peeling away from himself. Like his body was a little to the left of where he thought it was. He’d had regular headaches since merging with Justice, but they had gotten worse since meeting Hawke. They were sharper, too; needles of pain trapped behind his eyes. It felt rather like Justice punishing him.

The thought made his body go still.

_That’s not why I’m pushing him away. Not because Justice would rather I did. I’m doing it for Hawke’s well-being. … aren’t I?_

His pale, thin fingers trembled. He gazed at them uncertainly - then clenched them into a fist.

_This isn’t the time for this. I have to make sure Hawke is alright._

Anders spun on his heel, striding fiercely to the back of the clinic where he stashed his sparing belongings. He moved with energy he did not have, wrapping his cloak back around his shoulders and drawing the cowl over his head. After only a second of thought, he reached out and took Freedom’s Call from where it leaned against the wall.

The staff felt heavy in his hands. Did he even have the strength to be of any use, if Hawke was in danger? Gritting his teeth, Anders flipped his weapon over his shoulder and slid it through the loop of fabric sewn into the cloak’s back.

_The Hanged Man first, then. If nobody’s heard from Hawke today, I’ll take whoever’s there with me to help find the blighted fool. Varric’s always there, at the least._

Grabbing his satchel and shrugging it onto his shoulder, Anders moved with slightly more confidence as he walked out of his clinic. More than likely, he was concerned for no reason. Yet…

The idea of Hawke falling to Kirkwall thugs seemed far-fetched, but Anders knew some of the gangs that roamed the sewers. Hawke was magnificent in a fight - but he was still only one man.

Shaking off a bitter taste in the back of his throat, Anders gently closed the doors to his clinic behind himself. He knew generally where Hawke had been headed, and hoped it would be enough to find him.

Anders made it a good distance from his clinic before he noticed something was off. The streets were quiet. Darktown was no bustling thoroughfare, but it was never _empty._ Even the beggars who wasted their days huddled in corners were nowhere to be found. No glowering bruiser waiting for an easy target to shake up; no ratty orphan making grabs for pockets and coinpurses.

He stopped, the toe of his boot just grazing its next step, feeling a slow confusion working its way through his body.

Then a flash of movement caught his eye, a shape darting around the corner and coming face-to-face with him. Silent on her feet with an elven grace, his assistant had her skirts held up around her knees, a stricken look across her face. She was on him before he could open his mouth.

Her hands grabbed his elbows, shoving, and he narrowly kept his balance as she forced him a few steps back. “H-hurry, ser! You mustn’t be seen! Back inside!“

Anders barely had enough time to struggle against her. “By the Void, what’s gotten into -” She didn’t stop shoving, darting around him without letting go of him. She was prepared to drag him, it seemed, and he had to wrench his arms out of her grasp to stop himself. “What’s going on?”

She recoiled quickly from him, fingers curled near her chest. The elf stared at him with those slightly too large eyes, set slightly too high on her face.

“… Templars. A group of them, ser.” She balked, and Anders knew his expression shifted. He felt it, like rising gooseflesh. His jaw tightened against his anger. Hard. “They marched in like they were on a hunt, swords and all.”

Anders raised a hand to scratch at his cheek, digging nails slightly too hard against his stubble. He muttered, both to her and not. “They haven’t patrolled into Darktown in bloody ages. There’s no way this is happenstance... Maker.”

 _If Templars are involved…_ _What didn’t you tell me, Hawke?_ Brewing in his gut with a ferocity that made him nauseated, worry and anger rose in equal measure. If they were following in Hawke’s footsteps, that meant Hawke had gone to something they’d be interested in.

That whittled the options down significantly.

_Hunting apostates? Alone? I know he tries to help, I've seen him let mages go free, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous… he should have brought someone. Brought me._

The elf put her hands out with her palms up. She was begging, fear obvious in her voice. “Hide inside. I’ll stay out and watch for them.”

Shaking his head, Anders reached up to grasp at the hood of his cloak. He felt his body growing hot, like a fire were fluidly spreading up his spine and might tenderly consume him. “Listen… Go back to Lowtown. There’s a dwarf in the Hanged Man; no beard, lots of chest hair. Tell him Hawke may be in grave danger, and to come to Darktown.”

She scanned his face, confused - not uncomprehending, but bewildered.

“I _need_ you to do this. Please _._ ” he gritted out, harsher. Colder.

Anders could only muster up some small amount of guilt when she grew only more afraid at his tone. Her eyes darted downwards, examining the ground, and she nodded shortly. “If … you say so, ser. I’ll be quick.”

“Thank you.” he said, forcing a some semblance of smoothness to his voice. He started to move to the side to let her pass, but halted mid-step. Glancing seriously at her face, Anders instructed, “Don’t follow him back. It may be very dangerous here.”

She acknowledged his words with a mere tilt of her head, skirting around him and darting back down the stairs. Anders watched her as she retraced her steps, staying close and low to the walls.

A cold anger hardened his features. The very sinew and bone of his body pulsed with magical power he knew was not entirely his own. It thrummed through him and into his staff, blue mist leaking from the wood like condensation on a window pane.

Anders and Justice disagreed on Hawke.

On Templars, they were much more united.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Minor spoilers surrounding DA: Inquisition 's lore on spirits and some endgame stuff about Solas in the comments. :] )


	5. Chapter 5

Anders had expected some difficulty in pinpointing where the Templars had gone. He’d find them, if it meant scouring every inch of the sewers.

He returned to where Hawke and he had crossed paths, then moved down the alleyway the other man had left him by. The environs of Darktown seemed more imposing than ever before, closing in on him with a lurching claustrophobia. Only the gratelike openings overhead let in something vaguely resembling sunlight.

He drew his staff from its place on his back, grasping both hands firmly with one on the wrapped leather grip and the other halfway down. The faint blue glow that suffused the staff was enough to light the shadows lingering in the thin alleys and corners around him. Justice was a tangible pressure in his skull, but they were united in that moment.

It felt good. Right.

Turning a corner with a sharp step, Anders glanced fruitlessly down the alleyways, frustration peaking as he saw no obvious signs of the Templars’ recent passage. He had to get to them before they got to Hawke. _He wouldn’t hand the mage over easily, I know he wouldn’t. And Templars don’t take kindly to resistance._

Moving at a brisk walk, Anders scanned the ragged shanties and sagging doorways around him. Sometimes the glint of eyes would come from a half-boarded window, or a pale face would peer out, then dart back into hiding. Nobody wanted anything to do with Templars or the guard, and it was better to lay low and submit until they finished their business.

Gritting his teeth against a pang of anger, Anders tightened both hands on his staff. The blue smoke brightened, coalescing in swirls around his hands. Passivity bred tyranny. He had been passive once… apathetic… hiding and burying his head. _No more._

He would kill every last Templar in Kirkwall if they took Hawke from him.

A shout from nearby perked his head up. It didn’t sound like Hawke, which was a blessing - if a minor one. Keeping the direction clear in his mind, Anders cut sharply through a thin passageway, darting up a set of stairs two at a time.

A swell of relief nearly overtook him when he turned the corner and heard the distinct crash of metal coming from off to his left.

Hawke’s name came to his lips, but he bit back the urge to shout and swallowed it down. Narrowing his eyes instead, he sprinted toward the noises in silence, holding his staff close to his hip. They grew louder, quickly, and he pressed himself to the wall of a building that seemed to be the last thing separating him from their location.

He craned his neck around the corner.

The open door to a run-down building caught his attention. It was hanging off shoddy hinges, a smear of blood gracing its surface and a jagged crack through the middle as though it had been slammed so hard it broke. The sight put a weird tension through his body.

There was silence, now. He didn’t hear any voices, nor the sound of conflict, and the air stank of coppery blood.

Warily maintaining his grip on his weapon, Anders slowly stepped out from his hiding spot. Doing so brought his vision to bear on a corpse leaning up against the wall just parallel to the open door.

A Templar, sagged half to the ground.

Her armor had crumpled, and the metal crushed her torso from all sides as it bent inward. Fresh blood dribbled from the steel at every open crevice, and gritty fluids escaped her lips in a reddened froth, her helmet lying beside her.

Her condition confused him. The splatter of blood on the wall just over her head implied she’d been thrown against it like a ragdoll. Hawke couldn’t have done such a thing, strong as he was, to a Templar in full plate. _The apostate in the middle of all this? That’s powerful for a Circle runaway._

Anders advanced with caution, keeping an eye on the Templar. She wasn’t moving, but he kept her within his sights as he sidestepped, not willing to risk it. Her sword lay a few feet from her hand, gauntleted fingers limp on the ground. Anders did not fail to notice the blood smeared along its steel edge; he bristled, but kept himself calm with a shallow breath.

For safety’s sake, Anders took a half-step toward her and caught the toe of his boot against the sword’s crossguard, kicking it firmly away. It clattered across the ground with a scraping sound that made him wince, but he felt better with it far from her reach.

Retreating and sliding up to the door, Anders gave the Templar one last glance to assure himself that she hadn’t so much as twitched. Stepping into the threshold of the dark building, Anders extended Freedom’s Call like one might thrust out a lantern. The magic pulsating through his body focused into the staff’s tip, swirling into a much brighter glow that lit up the room.

The building was much like any other in Darktown. Shoddy, mostly empty, with a strong scent of mold and decay… and blood, this time.

Two more Templars were laying inside, blood pooling underneath them and smeared over their gaudy armor. One was collapsed just inside the doorway, and the other had fallen onto a table and broken it to pieces. Anders moved with caution, glancing between the two bodies.

The one laying amidst the shattered table caught his attention. The man’s sword was still sheathed at his hip - he’d been killed before he could even draw it. His chin was tipped up, mouth gaping wide above the open red gash that sundered his throat from one side to the other. Surprise was etched into his face like carvings into stone; he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

The sight gave Anders pause. It seemed violent.

“Hawke?” he tried, loud enough to echo back a little at him in the contained room.

He was met only with silence.

Chewing at his lower lip, the healer stepped around the corpse nearer to him. He noted his sword was still clutched in his hand, unsheathed and bloodied. The second to die, it seemed. Anders struggled against a lulling satisfaction at seeing Templars so thoroughly slaughtered - something didn’t feel right, as much as he bitterly enjoyed the sight.

Hawke was the kind of man who spoke before turning to violence. He’d talk enemies down with a jibe and a laugh if he could, and only take to blades when that failed. He shared Anders’ dislike for Templars, but he was never cruel, sometimes to a fault. It was something Anders treasured about him.

This wasn’t Hawke’s work.

“Is someone here?” he said, sharper, his panic bleeding into his voice and making it shake. Either something was wrong, or he’d walked into something completely unrelated. _I’ve been so convinced - what if Hawke isn’t even here…?_ He grasped his staff close to his body, defensively, tongue curling behind his teeth. _What have I run_ myself _into?_

There was a door on the other wall. Anders moved up to it cautiously, dropping one hand to his thigh. He swirled fingers in precise, intricate patterns, drawing out a protective rune in the air as he firmly tapped the end of his staff into the ground by his heel. Warm blue (a much different shade than Justice’s misty colors; almost aqua) spiraled up his body, the rune his fingers had traced appearing at all the vital points of his body as though branding into his clothing and skin… then fading, leaving only a warmth behind.

That expenditure of energy was enough to make him wince, but there was no time for weakness.

Placing a palm flat against the door, he pushed it open slowly. As it swung on its hinge, the light from his staff poured into the room, and Anders was struck by the all-too-familiar thick smell of meat and blood that came with an opened carcass. It was so heavy it felt like tangible mist against his face.

Standing in the very center of the room, back facing Anders, was Hawke. His body was rigid in stance but his limbs were limp at his sides, fingers vice gripped onto his blades. Just past him against the wall was a bare wooden cot frame, bearing the weight of a young elf... _gutted,_ like a slaughtered animal.

His belly was cut open, Circle robes and skin sliced in a neat line from ribs to waistline. Only by virtue of his position on his back had his innards kept from spilling out onto the floor, but blood had fountained down his sides and along the cot. The red stains were only just congealing at the thinnest spots; not too old.

Anders bit back a swear at the sight, and his attention was quickly on Hawke. The relief at seeing him, standing and breathing, was almost too much. Even Justice’s pressure seemed to lessen on his skull, his presence withdrawing slightly as the perceived danger faded.

“Andraste’s - you terrified me, Hawke. I thought…“  
He lowered his staff, moving toward the man with careful steps as he bit back words he so fiercely wanted to say. _I thought I lost you. I can’t lose you._ “Those Templars didn’t stand a chance.” He said it with a slight laugh, hesitantly quieting when Hawke didn’t react to his voice or so much as _move_ in response.  
  
The rogue just stood there, even as Anders grew close to his flank.

His heart was still racing in his chest, adrenaline drying out his mouth. Anders glanced from the other man’s back to the mage’s corpse. “Hawke…?” Reaching out one hand, Anders tenderly placed a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, warm and stiff under his palm. He squeezed, gently.

Nothing. It was like touching a statue.

Frowning with a rising sense of unease, Anders pulled his hand away. He softened his voice, stepping around the rogue with his weight leaning on his staff like a walking stick. “Are you alright?”

As the light from his staff crawled to illuminate the rogue’s front, Anders saw his wounds. Long gashes had been cut into his armor by Templar swords, splitting the leather in strikes crossing his chest and a few on his arms and shoulders. The bright red splattering his front glistened in the light, and Anders couldn’t tell what was his blood and what was the Templars’.

He blurted out a swear under his breath, panic surging him forward to touch a hand against a clean spot on Hawke’s chest. The wounds were severe - Anders had seen injuries of such size and depth be fatal before without careful treatment.

They weren’t bleeding as much as they should have been, though. Had he been less grateful, he would have taken the time to be confused.

“You need healing… We need to get back to the clinic.” Glancing up, Anders was startled by Hawke’s face. The man’s eyes were fixed on some distant point in space, clear and attentive but … blind. His features were completely impassive. Reaching up, Anders cupped a hand gently against the man’s cheek.

Anders forced Hawke’s chin to turn with firm pressure. Though he did move, his eyes remained fixed on that far-off place… and when Anders let go, Hawke’s head returned to facing forward. A chill traveled the whole length of his body, Karl’s Tranquil-blank face transposing over Hawke’s for just an instant in his mind’s eye.

Cold fear brought something sour to the back of his throat, but he refused to let it blur his thinking. _Stupid comparison._ He seemed enchanted, his consciousness trapped in some kind of magical glamour. His wounds were a concern, but his mind took priority.

_If the mage did something to him with blood magic, I don’t know that I can remove it. I need Merrill._

Hoping it was something much simpler, Anders pressed the tip of his staff against Hawke’s midsection. His free hand raised and settled flat against the man’s ear, fingertips burying in his hair and thumb on his temple. Feeling mana spread down both arms, warm and tangible, Anders gritted his teeth against a numbness that settled in underneath.

The strong pain of over-used magic pursed his lips. He waited, watching intently as a pale white shimmer spread down his arms… into his fingertips and staff… delicately meeting Hawke’s form and spreading like so much scattered light…

… and promptly fizzling. The magic disappeared entirely.

The feeling was somewhat like taking a step, expecting to touch down on a stair, and finding a cavernous chasm instead. Anders bit back a shudder, startled at the blow-back that came shortly afterwards. A pulse of energy burst against his chest, and he stumbled back several steps with an arm thrust up before him, nearly dropping to a knee.

It didn’t hurt him; it was just psionic force, enough to knock him away.

Regaining his balance, Anders dropped his arm enough to look back up at Hawke. He watched with no small horror as a delicate, feminine hand came sliding around Hawke’s waist from behind, dragging nails along the surface of his ruined armor and grazing them over the wounds between split leather edges.

It lounged into view at his side, tail flicking and slithering in the air. Hips bound with sheer fabric and breasts only just contained by thin tassels, it moved with an eerie grace and smiled at Anders, horned skull tipping curiously. “I know you.” it spoke, voice just a gleeful whisper.

Anders’ anger overwhelmed him, blinding and blistering. Control slipped away, but he clutched at it, struggled. “Get away from him!” he growled, hearing his own voice echoing back at him with the deeper tone of Justice behind it. “You will not control him!”

The desire demon laughed with a certain melody, trailing its hand down Hawke’s chest. Anders clenched his knuckles so tightly they ached, palm digging into the grip of his staff. “I already have, as you well know, sweet mage. He had so much burning inside of him, just begging to be made real. I merely … acquiesced.”

It smiled just a little wider, lips tugging and serpentine eyes narrowing. “So, in fact, do you. Hm.”

Breathing in fierce shudders, Anders felt his arm twitch. The want - the need - to attack rang like Chantry bells inside his skull, a crushing weight that sent tremors through him. _No… no…! I have to keep myself under control - A desire demon’s bond means death for both…_

Fighting Justice was a great struggle, vision blurring even as he held his body still. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth, and the words were his own. For now. “He is injured. What use do you have with a dying man? Release him.”

Retracting hands from Hawke’s body, the demon musingly caressed its own arms, playing nails over purple skin and watching Anders with precise attention. “‘Release him’? From what?” It turned its eyes back toward Hawke, lids slitting at his wounds. “He has already been released from his pain. I can slow his death, and give him a lifetime in his last hours. Is that not a kindness?”

The demon smiled with icy charm, stroking a palm down its stomach. “I am merely giving him what you refused him.”

Anders stared, breath shallow and heartbeat a staccato pounding in his ears. _Maker, no..._ “I won’t listen to you. All demons do is manipulate.” he muttered, voice harsh but fractured, tacit guilt in the slow slump of his shoulders.

He knew.

Smiling with an almost pleased sigh, the desire demon raised a hand and waved fingers softly over Hawke’s face. As though cut free of bonds, Hawke’s body went limp, posture shifting as his head rolled back on his shoulders. His eyes closed with a sudden flash, a firm and heated moan dragging out of him.

Thickened with pleasure, his voice was huffed and intimate when he murmured, “Anders…”

Anders felt a bitter agony at his own name. _I’m the weakness she exploited in him. I knew I… I..._

The rogue’s body twitched and moved, seemingly oblivious to the gashes in his torso. His hands reached up and cradled something against his body, fingers clutching at illusion and empty air, thumbs only just maintaining a hold on his blades. His expression was blissful, euphoric… carefree. Anders couldn’t look away.

“Are you happy?” The desire demon spoke to Hawke, leaning against the rogue’s side, and it was a disturbingly accurate mimicry of Anders’ own voice. It even broke a little in the middle, tone warmed with arousal.

Hawke’s lips tugged in a grin and he laughed, softer and sweeter than Anders had ever heard escape him before, responding in a low tone: “Ah… If you do that again, perhaps.” Bitter jealousy flooded him with a cold shock. Jealous of what was happening in the other man’s mind.

_This is all my fault._

Self-hatred welled like poison in Anders’ veins, burning through him, weakening his focus. His body trembled, pain spasming between his temples, and he slowly collapsed to his knees. Freedom’s Call slipped from his fingers, hands going instead to grasp blindly at his head.

Justice felt like fire and ice. And freedom.

Looking back at him, the demon curled its lips, almost piteously. Its voice turned to a purr, coaxing and gentle, sharp as a blade yet oblivious. “You do not have to suffer. I can see the longing in you; the bittersweet love, the pain… you can be free of it all, and with him forever.” It extended a hand, reaching toward him. “Join us, sweet mage. I will keep you safe.”

Magic splashed outward from Anders’ skin, shimmers and wisps of blue and black flooding around him. The deluge of Justice’s power created a pressure in the air that built and then broke, almost exploding, and his eyes flashed bright blue.

He thrust onto his feet in an instant, hands curling into clawed fists at his sides. Lines of searing blue shattered his body into fractured pieces, spreading over his skin like cracks in glass. He leaked blue-black energy from every inch, face turning fearsome with unleashed rage.

“I make no deals with demons.” he thundered. Anders’ voice was the faint echo, now. “You will be destroyed!”

Anger and fear cut across the desire demon’s face. It dropped into a low stance, a strange and guttural hiss escaping its lips. Maybe it sensed the Fade energy that lingered with Justice’s control, or maybe it sensed Justice himself. It thrust itself behind its enthralled host, and Anders’ stolen voice cried, “Help, my love!”

Driven, Hawke was forward in an instant, right blade up and angled with a tight grip. He lunged with a fierce blankness on his features, slashing hard toward Anders’ chest. The tip of the blade struck just below his sternum.

Then it halted, centimeters from the fabric of his robes.

A pale blue rune flashed where steel would have met flesh, shimmering and glinting as it absorbed the force. The protective magic lingered from the healer’s cast spell, power increased tenfold by Justice’s energy.

Justice grabbed the rogue’s wrist, fingers vicelike, affront and offense clear in the twisting of his thin brows. “You have surrendered to temptation.” he stated, accusation bloating his voice. Deeply ensorcelled, Hawke didn’t react to the pain of the iron grip or the words.

He attacked again, as merciless as he would be if Anders were truly in danger, other hand swinging to bury his blade in the mage’s neck. The dagger was frustrated by another glimmering rune.

“The demon has taken you. I will destroy you with it, if need be.” Splaying fingers, Justice gathered a flare of magic in his palm. Hawke started to thrash on his trapped arm, fighting hard against the grasp with little success.

Slamming the heel of his hand into Hawke’s chest, the possessed mage used the grip on his wrist to bring him to a kneel. The rogue struggled against it, but whatever magic had pooled in Anders’ hand went flooding through his body and wracked him with crippling shudders.

Hawke seemed strangely disjointed from whatever pain it caused; his face was distant and unmoving but his body failed, crumpling down with one knee dug into the floor. One blade clattered to the floor, the other clutched tightly in white-knuckled fingers.

The rogue tried to get back up, but could not, spasms erupting through his muscles at every attempt. Shallow breaths made his shoulders tremble and his teeth chatter, voice turning cold with a sort of panic. “N-no - don’t - touch - Anders -“

“That is not Anders.” Justice gazed at him with a cold disdain before turning his eyes on the desire demon and striding forward.

It was not unprepared.

Lithe legs launched it a few inches into the air to hover there, arms swirling together and forming plumes of black smoke between its hands. Striking out with airy speed, lines of the pitch blackness wrapped around Anders’ limbs and tightened, swirling shut around his wrists and ankles.

“You are no mortal mage.” it mused in smooth, satiny, mocking tones. “A righteous fool meddling in such a place… In such a human husk, even.”

The gaseous bonds were half transparent but tangible as steel, twining and twitching like live snakes. Justice snarled at the impediment, body shifting and fighting as the blue suffusing him burned brighter. Unable to contain him for long, the demon’s magic faded fast, the black tendrils of smoke thinning and weakening.

Its tone grew crueler. “You hurt him, where I brought him only pleasure. What cruelty is this, from Justice?”

“Do not speak of cruelty, Desire!” Anders’ hands flashed like torches, and Justice’s energy ate through the demon’s, quickly freeing the healer’s arms. Justice slashed one through the air, and a lancelike streak of fire spawned from his gesture and launched straight at the desire demon.

Crashing into the creature’s chest with a scattered blaze of orange and a sizzling sound, the magic was enough to knock it back out of its hovering and disperse the rest of the smoking bonds. Fierce and strangled hissing escaped it as it staggered, and Justice was next to it with a few long strides. One hand grabbed ahold of the leftmost horn that protruded from its skull, the other snatching around its seemingly delicate neck.

Anders’ fingers tightened, blue flames increasing in intensity until they started to burn into the demon’s form through his fingertips. Snarling in pain, the demon lashed out with wicked black nails at Anders’ forearms, sharp points gouging lines through his robesleeves and into his skin.

The possessed healer did not react, nor did he look back at the sounds of Hawke clawing his way off the ground.

“You will release your unjust control.” Justice demanded, unyielding.

The misty energy coalescing around his hand grew brighter and brighter, burning into the demon’s skin with increasing ferocity. Justice reached through the demon’s assumed form and burned it at its core. A piercing sound escaped it - a wail that vibrated with the faint undertone of a low rumble.

Hawke collided with Anders' back like so much dead weight, throwing himself at the man and grabbing desperately. With a fierce stab, his blade sunk several inches into Anders' left shoulder, hitting bone and halting. No protective runes shimmered into existence to stop it, but the blow seemed to serve more as an irritation.

The assault was at least enough to cause Justice's attention to waver, enraged, moving to shake him off. Taking advantage of the distraction, the desire demon thrust out its hands, palms colliding with Anders’ hips.

An explosion of energy struck both men like a crashing tidal wave, another psionic wave - only this time, it was much harder. The impact was enough to knock him off his feet and backwards, Anders slamming into the wall with a tremendous thud and Hawke hitting the ground at a roll just a few feet to the left.

Touching the blistered handprint that had been burned into its neck, the desire demon released a sharp hiss. When it spoke, all trace of feminine purr had disappeared, leaving only a deep snarl that spoke out of time with its lips’ movement. “I’ve no interest in conflict. I am freed, and another host will do.”

The demon waved a hand before itself, and a deep hum echoed out as it started to fade from sight. Not winded by what would have been a breathtaking impact for Anders, Justice recovered within seconds. Back on his feet, he lurched into a sprint toward the demon - but all he closed his fingers around was empty air.

It disappeared like the last wisp of smoke from a dead flame, an imprint of a jagged smile lingering in the air.

Angrily examining the room and finding no sign the desire demon was still there, Justice clenched a fist in frustration. He smoothly drew the blade free from his shoulder and tossed it aside. Furious, he turned and directed a damning glare at Hawke, still half-curled on the ground.

It became apparent that the demon’s magic had faded when a gentle sheet of blood flooded down the flat plane of Hawke’s chest, glistening and vibrant red, from every long gash that the Templars had left in his body. It began pooling underneath him as if the blows had only just been struck.  
  
Hawke blinked his eyes as though stirring from a dream, seeming oblivious to his own state in the first few seconds. He raised his head from the ground, pain and confusion finally wrenching at his features as he looked up toward Justice. There was a drugged bewilderment in his expression, the desire demon's enchantment still distorting his vision and perception.

"And-?"

Sudden, crushing awareness caught fire in Hawke's eyes, and he placed a hand against his chest. His lips parted, gazing at the red painted over his fingertips. The noise that escaped him then was a rattled choke.

Justice approached him with nothing like sympathy, looming over Hawke as he clutched at his torso like one might claw at a blanket when caught undressed at night. Pushing an elbow against the floor, Hawke forced himself into a tighter curl, gasping deeply with clear agony.

He gritted his teeth, body shuddering. An attempt to speak resulted in little more than an odd whine, every breath stained by pain, and the rogue weakly reached up a hand and stretched fingers out toward the healer. It was a pathetic, desperate gesture.

Justice did not move.

"You have allowed the demon to escape! Your weakness has endangered others."

Unable to do more than kick a heel at the ground in spastic desperation, Hawke used his palms and forearms to place as much pressure as he could on his own wounds... but they were numerous and leaked like cuts in a bulging waterskin. A fog was entering his eyes, and he gasped in air, head thudding against the ground.

The mage stared coldly down at the rogue for a moment. It wasn't thought so much as judgment.

Then he stated: “You will make right your wrong.”

Without much change in his features, Justice lifted a hand and grasped ahold of something intangible just above his head. Flexing fingers on the air, the spirit-driven mage gripped and pulled. The motion carried a weight heavier than seemed possible, straining, as though tearing something free.

Justice dipped his fingers into the Void and filled Anders with raw mana. It was taxing, the Fade’s touch sapping his mortal body’s strength, but with the hollow pain came raw power. Static charged the air, a shudder passing through Anders' body.

As it faded, so did Justice's blue glow, and Anders regained himself all at once.

His knees gave out, and he thudded down to a kneel with a sharp whimper of pain, stomach lurching. The room fell into dimness without Justice's energy to light it, the air muggy and thick. Through the cutting agony in his head and the wrung-out sensation in the rest of his body, Anders felt a flow of power vibrating warmly through him.

Having control of his body again was a disturbing sensation, though less so than being trapped in it as it moved according to Justice's whims. He still felt half-detached, like he were guiding the limbs of another.

Inhaling hard, Anders clawed fingers against the ground to push himself forward, crawling next to the dying rogue lying before him. “Garrett!” Hawke was staring distantly at the ceiling, mouth cracked open with his rattling breaths and hands limply draped over his wounds.

He didn’t seem to register the other man’s approach, not even when Anders’ knees pressed against his side and the healer hunched over him.

“Please… please. You Maker-damned idiot.”

Anders hovered his hands over Hawke’s chest, angrily clenching them when healing magic did not instantly coalesce. He struggled; focusing was difficult when panic and pain clouded his thoughts. Even so, the sight of Hawke so gravely wounded was terrifying motivation. With a steadying breath, Anders funneled the mana through a careful gesture and it escaped from his palms.

Motes of healing dripped onto Hawke’s chest and gathered against his wounds, eagerly huddled wisps sinking through the cracks in his body and absorbing into his flesh. They struggled to hold Hawke together like his wounds were jagged tears in a sheet of taut and tightening fabric, and Anders guided them with a soft wave of his fingers.

It was a slow and arduous process. The magic focused itself at the deepest and most fatal damages, healing Hawke from the inside out, and Anders was merely its vessel. Like the lip of a pitcher, guiding water as it poured.

There was a bracing confidence in the back of his mind, a part of him that was unafraid.

Every other part of him was terrified.

His right hand lingering over a terrible wound across Hawke’s ribs, Anders let his left drift up and graze fingertips against the man’s furred jawline. The rogue was deathly pale and his skin was cold, but Anders felt some comfort at the feel of warm breath brushing against his wrist. The touch of his hand spread healing there, and Hawke’s strained features slowly relaxed into something a little less harsh and agonized.

He watched Hawke’s eyes drift up to meet his, but didn’t know how aware or cognizant the rogue was. Anders’ voice was raw and broken when he muttered, “I’ll fix this, Garrett. I promise.” The man’s eyes drifted shut a moment later. It panicked the healer for a beat - but Hawke’s chest was still jaggedly rising and falling.

Anders felt a tugging, clenching sensation in his own chest, more fully cupping Hawke's cheek for just a moment.

“I’m so…”

He didn’t know what he wanted to say. A hundred things bubbled up and then caught in his throat. _Sorry._ _Glad you're alright. Scared to lose you._ A few other things he wasn't sure how to say, not even in his head. He said none of it in the end. Just settled both hands over the man’s torso, focusing past any thought that might distract him.

Time blurred and hazed as Anders sunk every drop of mana that Justice had afforded him into Hawke’s injuries.

When Varric arrived, it was with the Guard-Captain and two of her men in tow. Anders had never been glad to see guards before; Aveline owed him no allegiance, but Hawke was a different story. If the two had questions, they saved them, all attention on getting the rogue safely back to the clinic.

He was carried in Aveline’s arms with a delicacy and care entirely unlike her.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Hawke felt when he awoke was an uncomfortable thirst.

His eyes blinked open, crusted shards caught on his eyelids and sparking twinges of pain. He groaned under his breath, reaching up to wipe his eyes with a knuckle and rub off tacky sleep - and immediately regretted the motion.

Fire caught over his chest as wounds cried out at the careless shift of muscle, a restrained sound of pain bursting from his lips. It wasn’t exactly the worst pain he’d ever felt, but it did _not_ feel nice. Hawke grimaced ferociously as he dropped his arm back down, body tensing up until the pain faded away.

It was only gradually that he took a moment to actually process the dusty, cracked ceiling he was staring up at.

_Anders’ clinic…?_

For a moment, he strained. His mind was a blank and cavernous void, thoughts just impermanent fragments he could do no more than grasp at. The feeling was suffocating, and he struggled for a moment, weakly running his hands down his sides and flinching when they touched places that hurt.

He was shirtless? Bandaged. Between the strips of white cloth, he could feel the furred skin of his chest and stomach. There was a blanket draped over his midsection… his lower armor was still on, but his fingers brushed a gritty residue covering the leather that he quickly ascertained was drying blood. The rogue started to shift, eager to sit up.

A hand landed on his shoulder to still him, blunted fingers gentle on his bare skin.

“Whoa, whoa!”

He was startled to find Varric at his side. Garrett was laid out on one of the shorter tables in Anders’ clinic, and Varric had taken up residence next to him, leaning in from a squat stool. Judging by the slightly widened state of his eyes, the dwarf had been startled out of a doze. “Take it easy, Hawke.”

Breathing in slowly and letting his arms settle down, Hawke attempted to run his tongue along his lips. His mouth was blisteringly dry and all the action earned him was a leathery sensation and an incredibly sour taste.

Varric noticed. He reached down to the floor between his knees and then straightened up, a waterskin held in his hands. The rogue tipped his head and gratefully - _carefully_ \- reached out to take it from him.

The dwarf only half let go, keeping a hand on the waterskin’s bloated bottom as Hawke tipped it against his lips and got a graceless mouthful… and a little extra. Some splashed down his cheek and into the heavy beard along his jawline.

It was a relief for an aching mouth, even if swallowing while lying flat was no easy task. He coughed, grimacing as that only hurt worse.

Giving a rather lengthy sigh, Varric examined his wounded friend. The dwarf tugged at his earrings with his free hand, open concern dragging at the corner of his mouth. “Pretty sure Blondie brought you back from the brink, and then some. You… feeling okay?”

Hawke approximated something like a nod.

Everything came marching steadily back to him.

A faint groan parted his lips, curling his now-dampened tongue against the roof of his still sour-tasting mouth, closing his eyes as a deluge of thoughts and images all assailed him at once. Hazy, intangible memories of Anders’ touch… and the entirely tangible memories of blazing blue eyes glaring down at him.

He clenched his jaw, trying - and not entirely succeeding - to sort through the feelings that surfaced. They were muddled and hard to process, and it was difficult to think when his mind kept snapping incessantly back to the thought of Anders touching him. Whispering into his ear. Mouth around his -

_But it wasn’t real._

Justice’s voice was a hard echo in the back of his head. He remembered it… it and blinding, cutting pain.

A demon. A demon had taken control of him, like a plaything, and twisted his mind out of shape. The Anders who’d kissed him and pleasured him and tasted like something impossibly sweet had been exactly that: impossible.

A dream he’d wanted so badly to believe.

A dream that would have killed him, had the real Anders not come after him.

Hawke felt a strange melancholy as he repeated that to himself a few times. Some part of him had thrown itself into the illusion, and that part struggled with something a lot like sadness. The crafted memories and the realization that none of it had happened; that nothing had changed… it all left a hole that he was almost certain hadn’t been there before.

_Or at least it hadn’t hurt before._

He opened his eyes, and when he glanced to the side, Varric was still staring at him, patiently. The dwarf offered the waterskin up again, and Hawke took another weary mouthful, neater this time.

“… Blondie wasn’t exactly talkative about what happened.” The rogue settled his head down, rolling the water around his mouth slowly before swallowing. Varric placed the waterskin on his knee, giving a lengthy sigh. “Aveline couldn’t even get much out of him, and that woman is terrifying when she’s mad.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Hawke muttered, and it was a weak croak.

Varric examined Hawke’s face, thoughtfully scratching at the furry triangle of chest that was bared by his shirt. “Right, right… Nothing to do with it.” He sounded utterly unconvinced. “I just thought you spent your days staying _out_ of Templar business, that’s all. And, you know… avoiding killing them.”

 _Templars…_ The rogue remembered that, or something like that. His memories told him that Templars had barged in on them, had threatened Anders, and he had bested them with ease. Cut them down like thugs.

His wounds said otherwise.

_So a half-truth… What else happened that I don’t remember?_

Hawke raised a hand - slow and gentle, this time - to rub at his eyes and then his face. There was a feeling of soreness through his whole body, though also a stirred warmth that always lingered in his bones after Anders healed him. He grunted out, “And yours are spent fretting at my bedside.”

The dwarf flourished a hand up near his shoulder, tipping his head with an easy grin. “My schedule was open. Nothing better to do.” Had he not known the dwarf as well as he did, he might have missed the tension and exhaustion lingering at the edges of Varric’s eyes.

Subtle, but there. Chuckling softly despite himself and choosing not to comment, Hawke glanced around. The clinic was empty but for them, a fact that both relieved and frustrated him.

“Blondie left.” Varric was likely the least oblivious person Hawke had ever had the joy of knowing. “Not sure where to, but he made me promise to get you home to Leandra when you woke up.”

Hawke let off a sigh, closing his eyes, resting in the darkness.

“You’re mostly good as new. When he started digging around for a lyrium potion, I made him stop. It’s diluted down, but… there’s no reason to drink that stuff for some flesh wounds.” The dwarf shook his head, slowly, scratching idly at his neck. “Didn’t think you’d disagree.”

“Not a bit.” Grunting gently, Hawke pressed his elbows against the table. It hurt to move, hurt to bend his midsection, but he fought through it to sit up. “Someone has to look out for him when he won’t.”

Varric’s eyes rolled up, sighing even as he released a kind of rueful chuckle. “Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks, Hawke. Do you ever listen to yourself?” Hawke gazed at him, questioningly. He knew what was coming, but maybe if he looked like he didn’t…

“From what Blondie said, it was by accident that he even knew you were there.” Garrett groaned a little, drooping his head as the tirade started. “You didn’t think to bring back-up? I was at the Hanged Man, and Aveline was patrolling Lowtown. One word, and you’d have had an army. An apostate alone is serious trouble, and let's not even mention the Templars!”

Hawke gave a weak shake of his head. He barely had the energy for this. “…yes, drag the Guard-Captain into rescuing apostates. Brilliant. And your bolt-shooter is _not_ an army.”

Jabbing a finger toward Hawke’s face, Varric narrowed his eyes. “Don’t bring Bianca into this!”

Hawke sighed, turning his body to slide his legs off the edge of the table. His heels hit ground quicker than he expected, startling him slightly. He put one hand on his stomach and the other on the edge of the table. “Look, Varric. If I’d known I was going to be in danger, I’d have brought you.”

“Bullshit.” Varric responded easily, crossing his arms over his gut. “Danger doesn’t announce itself with some trumpets and a waving banner. You wouldn’t be in danger if you _knew._ You bring help, every time, just in case.”

Unable to stop a slight scowl from working its way onto his face, Hawke let out a breath with a slow hiss, teeth pressed into his lip lower so it whistled a little. “I assume Anders told you about the demon?”

Shrugging, the dwarf nodded, a kind of reserved look on his features. “That doesn’t-“

“You and Aveline would’ve been just as vulnerable as I was. Forgive me if I’m glad I didn’t get all of us possessed, but I think I’ll stick with my choices, thanks.”

Varric waved him off with both hands, releasing a grumbled ‘bah.’ “You’re being stubborn, Hawke. You’re smarter than this. That and ‘Hawke splattered on the ground like somebody dropped a fresh pie’ isn’t exactly what I’d call an option.”

Feeling exceedingly tired, Hawke reached down and pulled the blanket from his lap, piling it on the table next to his hip. “…Look, is it possible we could _not_ talk about this?” He glanced around, hoping to see his armor, or a shirt - but finding nothing. “I feel like the sunny side of a darkspawn’s arse, and skipping the part where we argue would be great.”

Varric’s chest heaved with a discontented sigh. “Alright, alright…” He took to adjusting his position on the stool, stretching out squat dwarven legs like he’d been sitting for a while. “Sate my curiousity, then. What’d the demon trick you with?”

Hawke froze up. A frown grew on his lips, suddenly examining Varric’s face. The words brought unpleasant questions to the forefront of his mind. _Flames, I hope Anders doesn’t know… That’s the last thing I need. Add some humiliation to this otherwise wondrous day._

“Anders didn’t say…?”

“I asked.” Shrugging his shoulders, Varric reached between his knees to where Bianca leaned against his calf, rubbing her folded limbs with his usual fondling intimacy. “According to him, you were just standing there staring at the wall when he got there, like a trance. Real creepy.”

Then the dwarf chuckled. “He guessed it had something to do with being a dragon.”

Despite an active attempt, Hawke couldn’t stop his relief from spreading onto his features. Varric noticed, arching a brow and leaning in slightly with sharp attention. Quickly scrunching the bridge of his nose, Hawke gestured at his bandaged-up chest. “Do I have something to wear?”

Varric didn’t let it go. He stood up off the stool, reaching underneath it and straightening up with a bundle held in his hands. “It surely can’t be _that_ bad, Hawke. What was it? Gold? Debauchery? An endless supply of those chocolate-covered nuts they sell in Hightown? … Debauchery involving those chocolate-covered nuts?”

Snorting quietly, Hawke took the bundle handed to him. He grasped the fabric and tugged, letting it fall open in front of him, and it was only then that he realized it was a cloak of Anders’. Not the one he’d been wearing earlier… this was a grey one. Thicker, as though meant for colder climes.

The healer had worn it to the Deep Roads. Huddled into it when the darkness and the cold encroached too close. Slept wrapped up in it like a blanket.

Had Varric grabbed it on his own… or had Anders left it for him?

Hawke was quiet, glancing from the cloak to Varric’s face with some degree of suspicion. The dwarf barely acknowledged the look, much too busy prodding. “Come on... If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to make it up. You were king of something, weren’t you? It’s never as great as it seems.”

With some reluctance, Hawke tenderly slid the cloak on around his shoulders. The fabric was a little cold at first, but it spared him from the open air and quickly insulated his body heat. When he drew the clasp closed at his neck and let the silvery cloth fall around his body, the smell of herbs and dust and sweat wafted up.

He tried to remember what Anders had smelled like in his mind - but pushed the memory away, at the same time. It felt … wrong. He didn’t really know where the lines between demon and fantasy and Anders all blurred, but he knew he felt more guilt than anything else.

_I need a bath._

“It was actually this fantastic world where you were mute.” he muttered, and Varric made a stabbing gesture at his own chest, as though plunging a dagger into his heart.

“You wound me, messere.”

Shaking his head, the rogue tucked his chin against the collar of the borrowed cloak. “I got possessed by a demon and nearly put down by Templars; isn’t that enough for your curiousity? Can I have one scrap of dignity left to my name?”

Hawke slid off the table, boots scuffing against the ground as he did. He must’ve winced, or trembled, because Varric moved next to him and shrugged up a shoulder in offer. “Let’s get you home, then.” Sighing, Hawke placed a hand on it and leaned against him.

Varric’s shoulders came up just above Hawke’s elbows, so there was a bit of awkwardness in their positioning, but Hawke felt much sturdier with the support. He didn’t utter his thanks, just kept his grip as they started to walk out of the clinic.

“I’m going to say it was the chocolate. If anyone asks. Just so you know, Hawke.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got ridiculously long. And was a brazen reminder of how out of practice I am! Goodness gracious.
> 
> One more it looks like, for closure on certain plot elements. Hoo ra.

As was oddly typical, walking Hawke home turned into Varric coming inside the Estate…

which turned into idle chatter…

which turned into an offer of a drink…

which turned into them sitting back-to-back on the floor of Hawke’s room, soaking up the warmth of the fire and passing a bottle of some awful back-alley liquor back and forth.

“I’m serious. I know at least ten people who’d pay a fortune for something like that.”

Unable to resist laughing, Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I’d love to see Fenris’ face when you start talking about the financial gains in his markings.” He took a sip from the bottle, unpleasantly smacking his lips at the watered down taste. “You do recall that it’s lyrium? And burned his memories out of him, from what he says?”

Varric let out a hum, rolling his shoulders. “Not every idea’s perfect, Hawke.”

“Right.” Offering the bottle back, Hawke slumped a little against Varric’s broad back, nudging his chin against the collar of the white-grey cloak bundled around his body. Varric accepted the bottle, guzzling a few hearty swallows. “Just keep back a few paces when you bring it up. And let me watch.”

Glancing at the fireplace, Hawke slid a hand onto his chest and toyed with some of the bandages. He couldn’t help it, degrading into a tic-like pattern of running his hands over the soft cloth, despite knowing he shouldn’t be fussing with his wounds.

As glad as he was to have Varric as company, he was also glad the dwarf couldn’t see his face. It let him drop his chin and relax into a thoughtful frown. Maybe Varric had even done that on purpose.

When the dwarf tapped the bottle against his shoulder, passing it back, Hawke grunted. “You couldn’t have brought a real drink? The Hanged Man sells better booze than this. The wine downstairs is better than this.”

He still took it, and he still swigged a mouthful.

“Don’t blame me.” Varric started cracking his knuckles, folding and bending digits against each other. “I was given strict orders to keep you reined in. Shitfaced drunkenness and blood loss don’t mix, or so our healer tells me.”

Hawke groaned slightly, thudding the butt of the bottle to the ground next to his thigh. He flicked his thumb against the neck of the bottle, shaking his head slowly. Watered down or no, it was enough to put a soft buzz in his body, and he grumbled something he might not have said otherwise: “Since when are you in on his plan to make me miserable?”

Laughing under his breath, Varric clasped his hands in his lap and glanced over his shoulder at his friend, musingly examining what he could see of Hawke’s face. There was genuine intrigue in his expression, though disguised under a few tons of self-satisfaction. “Are we finally talking about this? It’s a miracle.”

“We’re not talking about anything.” Hawke retorted, closing his eyes.

“It’s normal, Hawke. Near death experiences bring out all the messy shit in your life.” Varric crossed his arms over his chest, twirling a finger in the curly hair that dusted his collarbones. “I’m pretty sure even Daisy’s caught on by now. It’s like watching a mabari who can’t quite reach a slab of meat.”

He groaned for real then, shoving the bottle away from himself with a distinct glare of blame and setting it on the floor. Pawing carefully at his beard, Hawke shook his head. “Thanks, that’s helping.”

“Who said I was trying to help?” Nudging an elbow backwards at Hawke, the dwarf shook his head. Hawke pressed his fingertips into his eyes til he saw stars, nearly choking when Varric added helpfully; “The Blooming Rose has a few employees who could pull off a likeness, you know.”

“Oh, for -…” Hawke turned, pulling his back away from Varric’s, only vaguely gratified when the dwarf had to catch himself with a hand on the floor to stop from tipping over. His grin was just salt on the wounds. “I really… _don’t_ want to hear why you happen to know that.”

Frustrated, Hawke let out a sigh, bending up a knee with a slightly pained flinch and resting his elbow on it. He examined the fireplace, watching the licks of fire skate across the shape of messily hewn logs. Varric shifted to sit next to him, slouching back with a palm braced on the floor.

Varric gestured for the bottle, and Hawke begrudgingly passed it to him.

“We’re good friends, right, Hawke?”

Thumbing the edge of the cloak draped around his body, Hawke sighed - a sentence like that did not bode well. “I’ve had my suspicions, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”

Varric slugged back what was left of the bottle, swallowing it with a grimace. “Then you won’t mind some… well-intentioned advice.” A touch of seriousness edged into his voice, plus some hesitation. “I can’t say getting intimate with a possessed renegade apostate is something I’d really suggest. The moody look is appealing, I get it, but… there’s a lot of crazy under those feathers.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if we chose who to have feelings for?” Hawke returned with no small sarcasm.

He didn’t really realize his own choice of words until he noticed Varric was gazing at him rather intently, looking both entertained and… something else. Maybe concerned, maybe interested. It all tended to blur together into an expression Hawke unaffectionately named his ‘memorizing your misery for future reference’ face.

“…You know what I mean.” Hawke muttered, defensively. “Attraction. Lust. Et cetera.”

Laughing gently, the dwarf scratched at his cheek and arched up a brow, narrating in smooth tones: “Hawke deflected from his safe haven, huddling in Blondie’s cloak.”

Hawke placed a hand against the clasp holding the borrowed article of clothing around his shoulders, fiddling with the silver buckle. “You’re perfectly aware that I hate it when you do that.”

Varric shook his head with a grin that was excruciatingly self-satisifed. “You can stop being dodgy about this any time now, Hawke. I honestly just want you to admit it on your own.”

“I say again. You’re so helpful.” The weight of the cloak against his skin bothered him, now, and it was with a weary grumble that Hawke undid the clasp and shrugged it off, setting it aside in a pile by his knee. Hawke sighed, letting his shoulders move in a shrug.

“It’s been two years, Varric. A man with sense would take the hint. He’s not interested.”

“Since when have you ever had sense?” the dwarf responded with no small humor, closing his eyes into the warmth of the fire. “I just happen to be the one between us who was conscious for all of it, and I can tell you, you had _all_ of Blondie’s interest. I half expected him to hold your hand, and the way he just _gazed_ at you… I’d need a quill, some parchment, and about a week to really nail down a description. Never been great at romances.”

Groaning slightly, Hawke plucked at the notches and lines of his greaves, the leather stained with browning blood.

“That’s not what I meant. I know he… cares. He still doesn’t want to get involved, whether that’s because of the mage cause or Justice, or just because he doesn’t. He’s kept me at arm’s length, and maybe it’s what he wants.” The words put a clenching sensation inside his chest, a little like frustration and a lot like heartache. He knew it bled into his voice.

The crossbowman returned immediately: “So go tell him what you want.”

“It’s just … not that simple, Varric.”

Varric sighed, shaking his head slowly. When he set a hand onto the other man’s arm, the humor had sapped from his expression, leaving just a little bit of pity. “It’s always that simple, Hawke. That doesn’t mean the story has a happy ending - but it really is that simple.”

Releasing a lengthy groan, Hawke drooped his head to rest against his bicep, closing his eyes. “Having a novelist for a best friend is not as fun as I dreamed.” he muttered. Varric patted a few times on his shoulder, sympathetically.

“Honestly, I wonder how you even survived before you met me.”

The sound of Hawke’s door opening made them both look up. Sandal’s face poked in, startlingly silver eyes latching instantly onto the two men. The boy gave a grin that was below the beaming smile reserved for Bodahn and enchantment but above his usual reflexive smile, stepped in, and proudly announced, “Door!”

Garrett sighed slightly.

“Savant enchanter, and yet the complexities of knocking are completely beyond him…” Hawke mumbled, and Varric almost chuckled, quickly pushing a knuckle against his mouth to muffle it into a cough. “Sandal, there’s a visitor?”

It was fairly late, and his garb (neatly pressed pajamas; Bodahn’s loving doing) made Hawke think he’d been woken up by the disturbance, but Sandal was bright-eyed and alert past the wide and gawping look that so commonly graced his flat features.

The dwarf nodded, eagerly, explaining with the utmost sincerity, “Didn’t want enchantment.”

Hawke felt a sour expression take over his face despite himself, wearily nodding. He didn’t want to get up, and most definitely didn’t want to deal with whoever was at his doorstep. “Thank you, Sandal.”

He started to move, but Varric put up a hand to stop him.

“It’s alright, Hawke. I’ll go check. It’s probably Aveline. I asked her to update me on things. Covering your tracks, you know. No good having Templar blood on your hands.”

More glad than he’d care to admit, Hawke watched as Varric hauled himself to his feet and strolled over. The dwarf took Sandal gently in an arm, wrapping it around his shoulders, and led him back out into the main hall of the Estate.

Hawke thumbed at his lower lip, thoughtfully, turning his gaze toward the fireplace. He listened idly, but between the crackling of the fire and the cold stone walls, he couldn’t hear much. Just their retreating footsteps, then nothing.

Glancing down, his gaze was inevitably drawn back to Anders’ cloak, lumped up on the rug in a pile. It made him frown, and he reached out a hand to graze fingertips against the cloth, warmed by the fire.

It was hard to think about Anders and not think about the demon’s fantasies, now. It got harder every time he told himself not to remember.

Grasping a handful of the cloak, Hawke dragged it toward him. He pressed his mouth against the fabric, closing his eyes as his beard rustled against the thick cloth. Breathing in deep, he tried to lose himself in the mix of scents that lingered on it. A concrete imprint of Anders - the _actual_ Anders.

Forgetting what the demon had poured into him was difficult when he had so little to replace it with.

Elbows brushing as they walked. A head on a shoulder, but only for a moment. Thin fingers grazing his calloused ones amidst idle gestures. Sometimes soft touches, but they were always probing and clinical, and always alongside the pain of a wound. Bodies pressed close, but only in the midst of a battle, when an enemy would strike for Anders and Hawke put himself in the way, or grab Anders to shove him aside…

Pretenses. Excuses. But at least they were real.

At least the soft smile Anders gave him before he pulled away, or turned away, was real.

Frustrated, Hawke sighed, setting the cloak back down and placing both hands on the ground. _That’s definitely not helping._ Emotions stirred up and his body ached with… something. Pressing the heels of his hands into the floor, Hawke tenderly straightened out his legs, glad to relieve the pressure on his stomach.

When Varric returned, it was at a rather quick pace. Garrett arched a brow, watching with some concern as the dwarf hop-stepped over to pick Bianca up from her resting place on Hawke’s desk, holstering her on the back of his outer jacket.

But the dwarf looked pleased, oddly.

Turning to face Hawke, Varric set a hand on a cocked hip, lifting the other to point a finger toward the ceiling. He spoke, voice low and firm and conspiratorial, “I’m doing the best thing I can do for you right now, Hawke. You’ll either have someone to blame or someone to thank, and at least the former won’t be yourself.”

Hawke opened his mouth, brows wrenching together in confusion, but Varric was retracing his steps out the door with an equal degree of hurry and paid him no mind.

“Varric? Varric!”

He got no response, and he knew he wasn’t in any kind of shape to chase the dwarf down and strong-arm an explanation out of him. ‘Bewildered and confused’ respectably expressed Hawke’s emotions for the few seconds between when Varric strode out of his room…

… and Anders stepped in.

If Hawke had ever wondered what Fenris’ lyrium-infused hand reaching into somebody’s chest felt like, he was confident he had the answer now.

The healer was in a different robe from his usual one. This one was smaller - and featherless - a deep cobalt with brown leather strips stitched around the waistline and down the seams, swirling into intricate shapes on his chest. It hugged his form and made him look… smaller.

Hawke leapt up from the ground without thinking, a bit of a scramble, and when he reached his feet it was with a deep grimace. Pain made his spine slump and his body stagger a little, quickly punishing him for his hurry.

Anders had held his features in something reserved, but Hawke’s movements brought a wave of concern over him. He raised a hand softly, thin fingers spreading in a calming gesture. He spoke gently, but didn’t advance. The mage looked marginally better than he had that morning, a little more color in his cheeks.

“Hawke… You didn’t need to get up.”

Forcing a pained laugh, the rogue found himself crossing his arms over his chest, keeping an inch or two of space between his forearms and his bandaged skin. Tearing half-scabbed skin was about as enjoyable as seeing Anders, just then. “Yeah. Regretting that.”

Then the healer smiled a little, softly, and sadder than usual. He let his hands flatten down over his stomach, nodding back over his shoulder even as he tenderly reached back to close the bedroom door. Worry knotted his brow gently, and he examined Hawke’s face with a delicate earnestness.

“Varric said you were in pain.” _Oh, you’re a horrible, horrible friend, Varric._ “I told him I should’ve healed you more… he stopped me, earlier. He was -”

“Worried about you taking lyrium potions for no reason.” was what Hawke said, shaking his head slightly. Anders blinked at him with those burnt caramel eyes, smile fading, but didn’t look overly surprised. “And I agree with him.”

Sighing with a quiet frustration, the mage rubbed his browline. His voice dropped, and he did not meet Hawke’s gaze. “It’s not enough lyrium to be that addictive, and I’m not careless with it. It’s for emergencies, and I thought this ... you... counted.”

Hawke felt his chest ache and his heartrate pick up at the words. The rogue scratched a thumb at his bicep, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He tipped a grin onto his face, slowly. “You’re always careless, Anders.”

The way Anders sighed… Hawke regretted the words. It seemed to hit a nerve, and the healer’s frown was thoughtful. “I’ve had some time to rest, so let me take care of what’s left.”

He could have argued. He could have blown it off. He could have said anything at all to dissuade the healer, or at least _tried._ But he couldn’t muster up the will to do any such thing when Anders approached him.

Halting a step or two in front of him, Anders reached out, calmly avoiding Hawke’s gaze. The healer’s fingers plucked at a knot in his bandages, and tingling pain followed each gentle shift as Anders untied it.

There was silence between them as the bandages loosened. They caught in a few places where some healing poultice hadn’t dried and the fabric stuck to it, but it only took a small tug to dislodge them.

The difference between the bandages being there and not being there seemed minimal. That, plus Anders had seen most of him at least once. Wounds weren’t always in convenient places, and decency took second place when one was bleeding everywhere.

So, naturally, Hawke shouldn’t have felt overly strange about the situation.

So, naturally, he did.

As the bandages slid down, gathering in tangled loops around the rogue’s waist, Anders examined what was left of the wounds. Open strips of flesh crossed his pectorals and abdomen in the shape of sword slashes, pink and red, edged with darker colors where they were trying to heal over on their own.

Tenderly tracing a fingertip underneath the lightest of them, Anders sighed, a kind of frustrated guilt crossing his features.

“I’m sorry, Hawke.”

The fire scattered light across Anders’ features. Hawke looked - he couldn’t resist looking. His lengthy features cut shadows into the far side of his face, his nose in particular slanting a fine shadow across his stubbled, thin cheek.

Shaking his head slowly, Garrett kept his hands rather stiffly held at his sides, doing his best not to mind the pain when Anders touched sensitive, rent flesh. “Sorry? You didn’t make the Templars. As far as I know, you’re trying to stop them.”

Anders glanced up at him, then. Their eyes met for a tremulous moment, and Hawke felt a frown tug at his mouth. “How much do you remember?” There was one strip of bandage that was underneath all the rest, separate, tied from his neck down to his armpit and crossed over his chest. The healer gently started to undo the knot resting against his collarbone.

“Not a lot. Most of what I remember wasn’t… real, I think.” Hawke admitted truthfully, his voice careful as he maneuvered through his response. “I remember waking up and seeing you, but. You know. Glowing. And I remember fighting Templars, but…”

“But?”

Giving a small grin, Hawke closed his eyes. Anders’ fingers brushed against his skin, and the tingles it sent through his body were cruelly warm. “They didn’t get a hit on me. That’s clearly not true.”

Anders didn’t say anything. Hawke felt him peel the bandage away from his skin. He expected healing magic to soak into him at any moment - but it didn’t come. The healer slowly settled his palm flat against Hawke’s ribs, a touch that made Hawke tense up, breath catching.

“… Look.”

He blinked his eyes back open, glancing down.

Where the last bandage had covered, there was a dark shape on the flat of his left pec. Like a deep bruise, a strange burnt color flushed over his skin with a soft shimmer to the surface. It was rounded, with a few marks stretching up from it. Hawke didn’t understand, at first, and it must have shown on his face.

Anders gently aligned his hand with the shape. His touch irritated the branded flesh, a strange and itching pain.

A handprint?

“The demon coerced you to defend it, and Justice hurt you.” His voice was quiet and tense. Hawke glanced up at his face, and he struggled to stomach the self-hatred fluctuating over the healer’s features. “I hurt you.”

Cupping both hands over the strange injury, Anders set to healing it. Gentle warmth gathered between his fingertips, and Hawke felt it emanating into and through his skin, soft and soothing. A kind of strain clenched at his jaw; healing wounds caused by magic was a little different than normal injuries. More complex.

“Anders…” he murmured, hesitantly.

“I know you don’t remember. But I do.” Frustration wrought his brows, and Anders’ shoulders trembled. There was a miserable type of anger on his face. “I hurt you, and I couldn’t stop it.”

Hawke pressed his lips together, unable to shake a strange kind of longing, listening to Anders’ shaky and frustrated tone. He tried to lighten his own voice. “I attacked you, as well, correct? Doesn’t that make us even?”

Anders’ eyes went low, averted, and his voice went even fainter. Hawke knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“You were possessed by a demon. It shouldn’t be… comparable.”

Hawke reached up reflexively, and he placed a hand softly over one of Anders’ wrists. The healer tensed at the contact, but only for a moment, something gradually gentling at the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t mean -”

“I know.” Anders responded, quietly. He offered something resembling a smile, pulling his hands an inch or two away from Hawke’s chest. The rogue glanced down - the bruiselike handprint was gone. “He lent me enough strength to save you. I’m... grateful for that. I just...”

He trailed off.

Moving down to hover his hands over Hawke’s stomach, another soft wave of healing magic escaped from Anders’ fingers. It vibrated into the deepest parts of him, an intimate spread that raised up goosebumps he knew Anders had to see.

Whatever Anders saw, he didn’t comment on. His healing scattered a gentle glow across the surface of Hawke’s body, shallow wounds creeping closed from their widest points to their thinnest.

They were standing there in silence and Hawke couldn’t pull his gaze off Anders’ face, and as he realized his hand was still cradled over the top of the healer’s wrist, it finally didn’t seem worth it anymore.

“You just what?” the rogue pressed. When Anders didn’t look up, Hawke slid his fingers to find purchase in the soft space between the healer’s thumb and his other fingers, curling around his palm. Anders’ eyes widened, but Hawke’s were undoubtedly wider.

The healer’s magics failed when his focus diverted to the other man’s face. “Hawke...” escaped him in a slightly pained tone, and for a moment, the rogue thought he’d made another mistake. It was a relief when Anders closed his fingers to graze their pads against Hawke’s knuckles softly.

There was a moment where neither of them moved.

Then: “I know.” When Hawke seemed uncomprehending, expecting more, Anders pulled his hand away. Losing the hard-won contact sent a complicated set of emotions spiraling through the Garrett’s head. “The demon, it... told me. I know what you saw.”

Unthinking, Hawke took one solid step back. “Ah.” escaped him. “Well. Shit.”

Anders didn’t seem embarrassed or angry or any of the things Hawke expected. He more seemed sad, almost weary, chin tilting down to slant a glance at the rogue. It was that look that knocked Hawke out of his momentary freeze, clearing his throat and offering a slow half-grin.

“I suppose that’s... one awkward conversation I don’t have to have.”

Hawke was surprised when Anders closed the gap between them again. His hands returned to their place over Hawke’s wounds, and the healing glow gathered back around his fingers. When the mage didn’t speak, Hawke muttered, “You’re not reacting how I expected.”

Anders shook his head, slowly. The sadness that had stirred up on his face quickly deepened. “I’ve had all evening to think about it. And two years, on top. You mean so much to me, but I -” Frustration grew on his features again as he cut himself off, wetting his lower lip. “I cannot in good conscience pretend that I would bring anything good into your life.”

Drawing his eyebrows together, Hawke slowly examined the healer’s face.He released a sigh, and he’d have crossed his arms over his chest if Anders hadn’t been in the way.

“You’re a good thing.”

That seemed to catch Anders off-guard, glancing up at Hawke’s face with some hesitation. His healing hands got a little brighter, the warmth increasing against the rogue’s skin, even as he argued; “You fell prey to that demon because of me... shall I just ignore that?”

“If it hadn’t been you, it’d have been something else.” Hawke returned, firmly. “That’s how desire demons work, isn’t it? Claw around in your head for a bit and, oh, here come the carnal fantasies you never knew you had.”

“That’s ... beside the point.” Shaking his head, the healer focused his gaze on the rogue’s chest. “I couldn’t even save you without bloody hurting you. If I cannot promise your safety from Justice, how can I trust myself around you? With you?”

The healer dropped his hands, and Hawke belatedly noticed that his wounds had healed over completely. His muscles were taut and clenched, invigorated by the energies that had passed through them, and only old scars marred the darkly haired surface of his torso.

Hawke didn’t take his gaze off his face, even when Anders’ eyes failed to raise. “Unless someone else put my chest back together while I wasn’t looking, you’re the only reason I’m alive.” Anders bit at his lower lip, and Hawke saw more arguments preparing themselves behind his eyes.

Interrupting him before he could start, Hawke stated it flatly and calmly:

“If you’d rather I leave you alone, just tell me, Anders. But let’s not pretend it’s what I want.”

The mage went silent, head lowering and eyes examining patterns in the rug under their feet. Resigning himself to his actions, Hawke reached his hands to his waist to pull away the bandages from where they had caught on his belt. Gathering them up, he resisted the urge to say something else.

Anything else.

_Maker... What did you go and make me do, Varric?_

Taking the bandages in one hand, Hawke stepped toward the fireplace and gently tossed them onto the logs. They sent sparks and tiny fragments of ash puffing into the air, the white fabric quickly catching fire and turning black. He watched them burn, eaten up by tongues of flame, and rather envied them.

 _Perhaps I’ll throw myself in next._ he mused rather casually to himself, placing a hand against the fireplace mantel so he could lean against it.

Anders’ boots made soft sounds against the rug when he stepped closer. Hawke kept his eyes on the fire, though Anders was a dark blue shape in his periphery. His heartrate picked up at the advance. Then fingertips grazed his elbow - a soft, inquiring touch.

Hawke glanced back at the healer. He couldn’t resist stiffening slightly when Anders’ hand slipped hesitantly against his cheek. Anders slowly traced Hawke’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, pinky catching under his bearded jaw and palm cradling the side of his face.

“I want what’s best for you, Hawke. That’s all this has ever been about.” His eyes were soft pools of something awful and melancholic, and they searched Hawke’s slowly.

“You’ve brought out feelings I thought I’d never experience again.” Anders sighed. "I’ve barely stopped thinking about you since the day you walked into my clinic. After Justice, I... I thought all this was behind me."

The rogue tilted his head so his bearded upper lip grazed against the base of Anders’ thumb, shameless in his enjoyment of the touch. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. The lonely martyr lifestyle something you’ve been enjoying?”

Anders smiled a little, that rare smile that made his eyes turn to gentle crescents. “Not exactly.” His body shifted closer, just a soft lean toward him, and Hawke felt a curl of tension work itself into his stomach. “I can’t be the selfish man I once was. The refugees, the mages, the Chantry... too much depends on me now. I can’t put you first like you deserve.”

Reaching out, Hawke let both his hands brush against the other man’s waist. When he didn’t move away, he stroked Anders’ hips more fully, palms sliding at the fabric of his robe and smoothing it against his skin. “Your secret rebel activities are part of your charm.”

A quiver moved through the healer’s body, hips tilting to push against his hands, and Hawke‘s mouth went a little dry. It was a thrill, feeling Anders’ warmth under his palm, seeing the way his eyes went half-closed, watching his lips part and his tongue flick out to dampen them...

“...Hawke.” He was speaking in the gentlest of tones. Breathless. His hand gently slid down, grazing skin until it settled against the place on Hawke’s chest where there had only recently been a burnt impression of his palm. “Please, don’t make light of this.”

Anders’ fingertips tickled against the hair on his chest. Hawke’s skin was still tender, and he knew he shivered.

One small step brought Garrett so close their bodies touched in a tantalizing graze, Anders’ robed stomach brushing against Hawke’s bare belly. Hawke dipped his head forward, hovering his face in front of the other man’s so their noses were perilously close. “I thought I was being quite heavy about it, honestly.”

The sharp exhale that escaped Anders puffed against his chin. Hawke did not miss the mistiness at the edges of his eyes. He held still, slowly searching those eyes for some kind of guidance. He wanted to kiss him - it wrenched at him like nothing had before - but he hesitated.

He didn’t want to think about the demon’s fantasy. It came unbidden. As hard as he tried to shake it off, it lingered at the back of his mind. The kisses and touches were blurred, the memories distant like his mind was slowly working to erase the false images.

Hawke lifted his hands. He let his fingers pull away from Anders’ hips, but only long enough to skate up and cradle his face instead, one hand cupping either cheek. The mage’s heavy stubble raked against his palms. He felt a frown tug at his own lips when Anders’ lips trembled, feeling very suddenly like he were holding the other man up with just his hands.

“Anders, you - "

He might have gotten something meaningful out, had Anders not lurched forward.

Their noses bumped, lips messily pressing together, dry and a little uncoordinated when Hawke didn’t react fast enough. The kiss was half teeth at first, desperate. Sweet. They both tilted their heads the same way, faces colliding a little, but it didn’t stop them.

Anders closed his mouth around the thin curve of Hawke’s lower lip, a gesture that anchored them and guided their mouths to fit together, warm and soft. Hawke released a quiet sound into the embrace, fingers moving and sifting through the healer’s blonde hair to cradle against the back of his head.

There was a breathless element to the action, lips working against each other. Little tugs of suction were interspersed amongst moments where they just pressed close and soaked in the feel of each other's face aligned so tightly.

Hawke felt Anders’ hands slip to his back, pressing fingertips into the muscles just at the concavity of his lower back. His spine arched obediently at the touch, and there was very suddenly no space between them at all. Anders moved with blind need, jutting his hips forward so he could rock against the hard leather of Hawke's greaves. The moan that slipped out from the healer vibrated between their lips, and Hawke loved it.

The demon hadn’t been completely right, he was quickly finding. For all its white hot pleasure, it hadn't really given him Anders.

It hadn't captured how the healer trembled like he might shatter.

Or the way his palms and fingers traced every muscle and curve on Hawke's back with the utmost attention.

Or the ramshackle urgency of how Anders tasted at his lips, as though kissing were some rare luxury he'd almost forgotten how to navigate.

Imperfect, troubled, desperate Anders.

Hawke rolled onto the balls of his feet to cause friction between them, unable and unwilling to keep still. He couldn't feel much through his armor, but the way Anders' fingers clenched on his back was more than enough to make him want to do it again.

When they broke away, it was with a mutual dizziness that had them both breathing hard. Anders pressed his forehead into Hawke’s and nuzzled their noses together slowly in a gesture that was as sweet as it was needy.

“Andraste’s knickers.” escaped him in something like a whimper. Hawke chuckled, low, but couldn’t have agreed more with the sentiment.

He should have been more nervous, but maybe the watered down swill Varric had plied him with had had more of an effect than he’d admit. Or, he was just too damn glad to have the _real_ Anders in his arms. Everything else seemed trivial.

Mostly. His heart was still thumping like a dog’s tail.

Beginning to walk slowly backwards without moving his hands from their place cradling Anders’ head, Hawke was relieved to find the healer following him without the slightest sign of hesitance. They managed not to trip over each other while keeping intimately close, and Hawke found the foot of his bed with an outstretched calf.

Turning suddenly, Hawke circled around Anders to switch their positions. It only took a small nudge to encourage the other man to fall backwards onto the bed, and Anders landed on his back with a small bounce and with his knees hooked over the end of the bed. His robe kept his legs from spreading much, the fabric straining over his body when he pushed them as far apart as they could go.

Hawke took all of Anders in with eager eyes, swallowing past the lump stuck in his throat. “Has anyone ever told you that you look extremely good in my bed?” he asked, jovially masking a faint sense of dizziness.

When Anders opened his eyes, he caught Hawke’s stare. A smile blossomed on his lips as he slowly shifted his weight on the neatly made bed to get up on his elbows. “Do you ever stop?” He was almost laughing, and it was wondrous.

“My ravaging sense of humor? What a shame that’d be. I’d be so boring.”

Anders pushed his lower lip between his teeth, eyes gaining something a little mischievous. He reached up, undoing the latch of his robe collar so it loosened around his neck and bared the shape of a fine collarbone. “You couldn’t be boring if you tried, I think.”

Hawke’s eyes were drawn to the small stretch of pale skin, entranced right out of a coherent response. Reaching his hands down to touch Anders’ legs, Hawke grasped onto the skirts of his robe and hitched them up. There was a second layer of fabric underneath, a greyed cloth robe, but it all slid together easily past Anders’ knees.

The healer quickly took advantage of the freedom to hook his heels behind Hawke’s calves and urge him closer. He obeyed, moving between the man’s legs, standing right against the edge of the bed.

Glancing down, Hawke watched his own fingers push Anders’ robe up. Fine blonde hair on his legs caught the firelight like sprinkled gold dust, thinning out above his knee where the pale flesh of his thighs were. The fabric bundled as it rode up his thighs, and when Hawke pushed it higher, he discovered where the mischief had come from.

“Maker’s breath, Anders!”

The man had shifted his weight to his elbows and lifted his hips up off the bed, making space so Hawke could get the robes past his rump.

His bare rump.

“You’re _naked_ under this?”

Releasing a soft laugh, Anders leaned more on his left elbow so he could lift up his other arm. He reached down to grasp ahold of his own robes, clutching at fabric just next to his hip and pulling. “You’re always naked under something.” he returned, rather wryly.

Hawke felt a distinct surge of tension when the cloth rode up past Anders’ pelvis - his lower armor was suddenly excruciatingly tight. Anders’ cock lay perked against his thigh, the base nestled in blonde curls and a pleasant blush spread up the underside.

It only then occurred to him that he couldn’t recall the demon’s image of Anders being naked.

He was glad for that. This, at least, hadn’t been tainted.

The healer relaxed back down against the bed as he tugged the robe up to his waist - then was not unpleasantly startled when Hawke firmly grabbed it and pulled it up his torso. Wrestling one arm from the sleeve, then the other, they got the offending clothing off of him, and Hawke pawed it off the bed and to the ground beside him.

Bending down, Hawke braced a knee against the very edge of the bed and leaned down over the other man, placing palms against the mattress on either side of Anders. He couldn’t stop his gaze from raking liberally across the body laying beneath him.

Anders was thinner than he seemed with his feathered coat on. Smaller. Hawke shifted a hand, slowly dragging fingertips across the man’s ribs and up to thumb tenderly over a nipple, sending goosebumps spreading along his limbs. The healer’s lips parted with a gentle gasp, whole body reacting with a tremble.

Dipping his head, Hawke dropped down to his elbows, shoulderblades pulling together as he found Anders’ shoulder with his mouth. Grazing lips along the man’s skin, he applied kisses to the slender collarbone there, gratified when Anders grasped at his sides and squeezed fingers.

Testingly, he traveled up a few inches to press his mouth against the man's neck. When Anders turned his chin to surrender pale, delicate skin to Hawke's attention, he grinned and pulled back a bit to get a look at Anders' expression.

Anders was redder now. His shallow cheeks flushed with arousal, the mage let his lids go low over his eyes and he looked toward Hawke with something caught between adoration and frustration. "Tease." he accused.

Hawke returned his lips to Anders’ stubbled neck, speaking between kisses with a matter-of-fact correction. "Savoring." He explored upwards until he was nuzzling closely against the rough line of Anders’ jaw, the mage's jugular thudding against his cheek.

A soft hum left Anders’ lips, sliding hands down to Hawke’s belt and finding the buckle at the front. It jangled as Anders deftly undid the metal clasp, and its unlatching created enough loose space to allow his hand to slip under the leather.

Hawke sighed out when Anders palmed at his groin, fingers wiggling into the space between his leather armour and the relatively thin fabrics of his smalls. The mage’s hand felt remarkably warm against the stiffness stowed away under his clothes, and Hawke couldn’t resist rocking his weight to rub against it. He tilted his head so he could nip at Anders’ jaw, pinching skin between his teeth.

He wasn’t surprised when Anders’ fingers spread then gripped, fondling him, but he _was_ surprised when the warm sensation of stirring magic suddenly emanated against the skin there. He didn’t distrust the mage, certainly, but Hawke still pulled his head back, beginning a questioning, “What -?”

A flutter of pressure suddenly arched through his groin, muscles squeezing on their own with a tension that shot pleasure into the base of his spine. Hawke couldn’t stop a hard groan from leaving his lips and he clutched tightly on the blanket under his hands, hips reflexively bucking up.

A low current of electricity passed between them, tingling in an unexpectedly pleasurable way. His head got light and fuzzy as though all the blood in his body had decided to joyously drain down into his cock - and judging by how his trousers felt two sizes too small, that was precisely what happened.

The throbbing sensation through the muscles around his pelvis was subtle but intense. Even when Anders let the magic fade away, he could still feel its echoes between his thighs.

"What in the... _blessed Maker_ was that?"

Anders rubbed his hand in stunted circles, struggling to move much in the confines of Hawke’s armour. It was a gesture meant to soothe his over-stimulated flesh, but it did more to heighten an increasingly distracting sense of need. Watching the other man's face closely, there was a lust to the way Anders chewed his lower lip amidst his response.

"Just a trick I picked up somewhere." the healer murmured with an airy tone; a huskiness that softened his voice. "Magic needn't always be for battle."

Then he was smiling, slow and secretive. "I can do even better, if you lay down."

Hawke didn’t need much more motivation. Pushing off the heels of his hands and his knees, the rogue tipped himself to the side and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached down, tucking hands under his thighs one at a time and undoing the buckles keeping his leather legplates attached to his body.

Anders shifted next to him, crawling to sit up, casual and comfortable in his firelight-kissed skin.

He took a moment to slide his boots off, wiggling toes in their newfound freedom, then turned attentive eyes to watch Hawke strip off his armor. Nothing encouraged him to move faster like Anders slipping a hand onto his stomach and stroking at the furred skin just below his bellybutton.

As Hawke shed his leather cuisses, Anders leaned past his shoulder and pressed a kiss to Hawke’s cheek. The rogue quickly turned his face and caught the man’s lips with his, their mouths melding softly. The satiny brush of Anders’ tongue against his lower lip enticed the kiss into deepening, heated sighs lost between them.

Maintaining the pull and push of their kiss, Anders placed a hand on his shoulder and slid himself to straddle the other man’s thighs. Hawke hadn’t even removed his greaves or his boots, but neither man seemed interested in waiting. Reaching down, Anders sunk fingers beneath the rogue’s trousers and smallclothes, tugging them down far enough to free his erection.

A muffled moan escaped Hawke when the mage wrapped slender fingers around him, stroking at the rigid flesh. He eagerly placed hands on Anders’ back, rubbing at the lean muscles and feeling the faint scars there.

The healer trembled under his fingertips, and it was not from a chill.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Anders leaned back just enough to spit into his palm. He met Hawke’s gaze unabashedly as his hand grasped and tenderly pulled their shafts against each other. He stroked his wet palm slowly and loosely around their erections until the slickness of his saliva made their skin glide.

The friction sent Hawke’s hair up on end, fingers sliding down Anders’ back to rub palms against his buttocks, encouraging him closer, enjoying every inch of skin he could pull against him. The healer’s exhale was soft and pleasured, leaning in until their chests brushed and he could press lips against Hawke’s ear.

“I have ached for you.” he whispered, nipping Hawke’s earlobe between his teeth. Anders’ fingers tightened, squeezing, and slender digits channeled delicate sparks through their flesh. “Every night.”

Hawke couldn’t resist rolling his hips up. The pleasure stirred stars behind his eyes, turning his face to press hard into Anders’ neck and muffle the groan that left him when Anders met his movement with a firm grind down.

Between the feel of hard, silky skin and the strange static of Anders’ magic, there was a bliss that built up between them. Hawke knew he growled but couldn’t stop it, body shuddering with enjoyment.

Anders tightened his grip and rolled their lengths together, electric sparks gently passing between his fingertips. He slid his hands down the mage’s thighs, clawing at his skin with a kind of heated desperation, and Anders’ breath was huffed and tense in his ear.

The intensity grew as Anders’ free hand joined the first, wrapping around their erections. Pleasure shuddered and heightened with every passing instant, both men picking up a kind of uncoordinated gyration of their hips

Sensations were impossible to pinpoint amidst the crushing weight of pleasure. Anders writhed against his lap with the sweet pull of a sigh that trembled and went desperate, and the energy coalescing between them peaked with a tangible jolt.

Orgasm came in a quake, almost excruciatingly slow - it was heavy, dragging, and his hips bucked up hard into Anders’ grip. The pleasure broke every sense left to him, vision turning to blurred half-shapes as blood thundered in his ears, having only the cognizance to bury his mouth against Anders’ neck and muffle the sounds that left him.

He was only distantly aware of stubble raking against his shoulder as Anders kissed it, skin buzzing with a kind of tingling numbness. Sweat dampened the spaces where they touched, a musky smell in the air, both of them shivering with aftershocks.

Hawke exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of his body enough to slide hands up and cradle behind Anders’ waist. The healer hummed vaguely as he did, and both men surrendered to the allure of collapse. Gracelessly, Hawke tipped himself backwards onto the bed, and Anders rode him down, letting his limbs slide straight with the fall.

Their legs dangled off the end of the bed, tangling up at the knees. The copious fluids left between them were sticky and warm, and when Anders settled flat on top of him, it was with a pleasantly intimate sensation of _not caring._

Although his muscles still felt uncoordinated and stiff, Hawke managed to trail fingertips affectionately along the healer’s back, slick with sweat. Anders’ face turned to nuzzle against his beard, forehead burying into the black fur and sighing.

There was something thoughtful to the exhale. Hawke noticed.

Petting gently down the divot of Anders’ spine, the rogue wrapped his other arm around the mage’s waist and held him close. Hawke closed his eyes, reveling in the weight of Anders’ relaxed body on his. He didn’t push, just tipped his head to rest his cheek more fully against the man’s forehead and murmured a trailing; “That was...”

He felt Anders wipe his hands against the blankets - a gesture that amused him more than anything - and then lift them up, sliding arms underneath Hawke’s shoulders to settle into a lazy sprawl, fingers spread.

Anders let out something like a chuckle, breath warm against the rogue’s neck. “Should I worry about comparing to a desire demon?”

It was framed like a joke, but Hawke sensed an edge of sincerity - or something sincere behind it, at least. Without opening his eyes, he slipped his hand up Anders’ back and brushed fingertips against his hair. “I get the feeling you could teach it a few things.” he returned with a slanted smirk.

When Anders nuzzled against his jaw with a silence that hung on the air, Hawke licked at the backs of his teeth.

“... I want you. Not a demon’s image of you.” His voice grew serious; stiffly so. He knew he’d struck the truth when Anders went perilously still, his breath catching in a gentle way. Hawke twisted his head slightly, pulling away so he could glance down at the other man’s face. “That’s not... _news_ to you, is it?”

Anders lifted his chin, though he looked away rather than meet Hawke’s gaze. A faint smile touched his lips - soft, but gaining a somber edge as he spoke. “You must understand... Circle mages don’t have normal lives or normal relationships. There’s no room for such luxuries when you’re under the heel of Templars. They’d only use it to crush you.”

Words like those typically broke down the fragile walls between Anders and Justice. Hawke merely kept an idle watch for that all-too-familiar blue glow invading his eyes.

It never came.

“They’d hound you - watch you for any sign of weakness.” He could feel Anders growing tense in his arms. “Friends were dangerous enough, sometimes. Anything more was just... a game. Quick trysts in corners to alleviate the boredom. Make you feel less alone for a few sparing moments.”

Catching the tip of his finger against the small tie that held Anders’ hair back, Hawke tugged it loose. As the gathered strands fell free, he raked his digits through it and rubbed at the mage’s scalp in slow circles. It seemed to soothe the man, if only slightly, and Hawke murmured, “You aren’t in the Circle anymore.”

A sadness tinged the smile that Anders turned on him. “When they take you as a child and keep you locked up there your whole life, it isn’t so easy to forget. It’s hard to imagine loving and living freely. It... was, anyway. Until I met you.”

Hawke pet his fingers to the crown of Anders’ head, wordlessly. He waited and wasn’t wholly sure what he was waiting for until it came.

“I’ve tried to hold back. You deserve so much better. But I’ve never been so afraid to lose someone as I was today. It would... it would kill me to lose you, Garrett.” The healer bent his head, placing a kiss against Hawke’s lips, a peck that did not beg for anything further.

“I love you.”

A strange brand of relief settled through Hawke, along with something warm that made his lips turn up at the edges. The words all seemed natural - comfortable. Things that should have been said long ago.

Hawke pulled his fingers away from Anders’ scalp, stroking a knuckle along his jaw, the stubble there rasping against his skin. He flicked a glance along the mage’s features, then asked in a firm tone that didn’t seem quite so much a question as it was a statement; “Stay the night?”

Anders gave a curved smile, and there was a gentleness to it, along with an embarrassment. He tipped his head, undone hair falling about his cheeks in delicate tendrils. “I’m ... surprised. No joke, no smart response?”

Rather nonchalant amidst his lingering smile, Hawke shrugged his shoulders.

“I can still pull one together, if it’d make you feel better.”

Anders released a soft laugh, wrinkling his brows slightly. He spoke with tremendous, yet frail affection. “No need... I’d love to stay.” Tipping his head, Anders pushed against Hawke’s hand gently. “There is no place I’d rather be tonight than in your arms.“

Tightening his grasp around Anders’ waist, Hawke pushed an elbow into the bed and hauled his body a few inches up the length of the bed. The healer startled at first, then somewhat slowly helped scoot them into a more natural position on the bed. Both men squirmed their way up until their heads hit the pillows and their legs were no longer awkwardly hanging off the edge.

Hawke reached to the side and grabbed hard onto his bed’s covers, yanking to rip them out of their tuck under the mattress. He threw the blanket over them, messily sandwiching their bodies between it and its still-made other half. When he returned his attention to Anders, the healer was looking at him with something between confusion and amusement.

The rogue just flashed him a cheeky smile and wrapped both arms around Anders’ torso, pulling him more comfortably atop himself.

Surrendering entirely, Anders buried into the bubble of covers that Hawke had created around them, resting his head down so he could nestle his face against the rogue’s neck. It was a vulnerable yet trusting gesture - he snuggled close to the man’s chest as though he could find safe haven under the broad swell of Hawke’s bearded jaw.

The embrace melted into a kind of peaceful lethargy, skin sticky but warm between them. Letting a hand trail up Anders’ side, rough fingertips toying at his ribs, the brunette gazed up at the canopy of his bed. The mage’s breath tickled against his neck delicately, and Hawke smiled faintly before closing his eyes.

_I’ve a dwarf to thank later, I suppose._


End file.
